THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  LOUISIANA  BOOK 

SELECTIONS 

t 

FROM  THE 

LITERATURE  OF  THE  STATE. 


EDITED,  WITH  A  PREFACE,  AND 
WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL,  CRITICAL,  AND  EXPLANATORY  NOTES,  BY 


THOMAS  MJCALEB, 


AUTHOR  or  "ANTHONY  MKLGRAVE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED    WITH    PORTRAITS. 


NEW  ORLEANS: 
R.   F.    STRAUGHAN,  PUBLISHER. 

1894. 


COPTRIGHT,  1894, 

BY  THOMAS  M'CALEB. 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York 


PS 


PREFACE. 

THE  singular  fact  that  the  literature  of  Louisiana  speaks  in  both 
the  French  and  English  tongue  has  generally  been  unnoticed  by 

tr>        historians  of  American  letters  ;  and  local  scholars  are  no  doubt  justi- 

^       fied  in  their  complaint  that   the  works   of  our  writers,  in  French 

»        especially,  do  not  enjoy  that  wide  recognition  which  they  deserve. 

I  would  remain  silent  on  this  point  did  I  not  feel  obliged  to  offer 

,  some  explanation  for  having  done  very  scant  justice  to  the  French 
portion,  the  oldest  if  not  most  deserving  portion,  of  our  literature. 
Two  circumstances,  indeed,  have  made  it  desirable,  if  not  necessary, 
to  limit  the  scope  of  the  present  book  to  productions  by  our  English 
authors.  In  the  first  place,  I  was  not  able  to  procure,  within  the 
time  which  I  assigned  to  myself  for  the  completion  of  this  volume, 
translations  of  passages  from  hundreds  of  worthy  French  produc- 
tions ;  and  in  the  next  place,  I  deemed  it  impracticable  to  make 
bilingual  a  work  that  is  intended  for  general  circulation  in  Louisiana  : 
for  while  our  Creoles  (and  by  that  term  I  mean  native  Louisi- 

.o      anians  of  the  Latin  race)   generally  read  with  equal  facility  both 
English  and  their   own    maternal    tongue,  our   people  of  Northern 

^J     extractions  know,  as  a  rule,  no  language  but  their  own  ;  and  it  is  to 

™     them  this  book  looks  for  its  largest  audience. 
<^          It  affords  me  pleasure,  for  all  that,  to  be  able  to  give  representa- 

VA     tion  to  a  few  of  our  best-known  French  authors.     I   have  procured, 

^  for  instance,  a  good  translation  of  La  Chambre  d?  Amour*  by  Albert 
Delpit,  whom  Louisiana,  his  mother  State,  claims  as  her  greatest 

XA    novelist,  despite  the  fact  that  his  fame  was  won  in  France.     I  also 
^     present  in  English  dress,  and  for  the  first  time,  an  episode  f  by  Dr. 
Alfred  Mercier,  who  has  contributed  with  honor  to  every  important 
department   of  literature   except  history.      I  must  further   call   the 


>       reader's  attention   to  an  excellent  translation  of   a  short  story  ^  by 
»       Edouard    Dessommes,  a    bold    literary    colorist,    to    whose    genius 
Auguste  Yacquerie,  the  accomplished  French  poet,  has  paid  a  hand- 
some tribute. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind,  however,  that  I  have  not  included 
scores  of  our  Anglo-Louisiana  writers  and  orators  who  are  quite 
as  deserving  as  some  on  whom  my  choice  has  fallen.  More- 

*  Vide  p.  343.        f  Le  Banquet,  vide  p.  373.         \  Madeleine  et  Serthe,  vide  p.  400. 


427.63.? 


IV  PREFACE. 

over,  I  have  classed  as  Louisianians  many  authors  whom  other 
States  and  countries  might  claim  with  equal,  perhaps,  in  some 
instances,  with  more  justice.  It  is,  however,  hard  to  decide  ofttimes 
what  must  be  the  criterion  in  the  decision  between  States  or  coun- 
tries making  such  claims;  though  it  would  seem  that  the  prefer- 
ence should  be  given  to  the  place  of  one's  birth.  I  have  not  merely 
considered  whether  the  authors  represented  in  this  book  generallv 
regarded  themselves  as  Louisianians,  but  also  whether  their  repu- 
tation in  literature  was,  in  whole  or  in  part,  made  during  their 
residence  in  the  State. 


In  the  construction  of  my  volume,  I  have  been  guided,  on  the 
whole,  by  the  rules  Lord  Bacon  lays  down  for  the  compilation  of  a 
book  of  "  Institutions  "  of  the  law.*  "  Principally,"  he  says,  "  it  ought 
to  have  two  properties — the  one  a  perspicuous  and  clear  order  or 
method,  and  the  other  an  universal  latitude  or  comprehension,  that  the 
student  may  have  a  little  prenotion  of  everything." 

I  have  divided  my  subject  into  five  parts,  to  wit:  Historical 
Sketches,  Specimens  of  Oratory,  Essays,  Fiction,  and  Poetry.  In  my 
endeavor,  however,  to  make  the  divisions  logical,  I  have  encountered 
the  main  difficulties  of  a  librarian  who  seeks  to  classify  his  books 
under  special  departments.  True,  I  have  found  little  or  no  difficulty 
in  arranging  selections  under  Part  IV.,  denominated  Fiction,  and 
under  Part  V.,  denominated  Poetry,  and  subdivided  into  two  sec- 
tions, respectively  styled  Dramatic  and  Miscellaneous.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  some  few  selections  which  I  have  placed  under  Part 
II.  and  Part  III.  might,  with  some  reason,  be  assigned  to  Part  I. 
I  have  chosen,  moreover,  for  Historical  Sketches  only  such  subjects 
as  belong,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  the  history  of  Louisiana,  Part  I. 
and  Part  II.  might  also  as  reasonably,  perhaps,  be  included  with 
Part  III.,  under  the  general  heading  Essays,  if  I  limit  the  definition 
of  that  word  to  mean  prose  productions  treating  briefly  of  a  given 
subject.  Yet,  though  I  cannot  in  general  take  an  elastic  view  of  the 
term,  I  have  not  scrupled  to  class  as  essays  such  passages  by  our 
writers  as  treat  of  a  definite  subject  in  one  or  many  of  its  aspects. 
And  I  am  responsible  for  the  titles  prefixed  to  such  selections,  as 
well  as  to  many  others  that  come  under  Part  I.  and  Part  II.  More- 
over, in  subdividing  Part  III.  into  Essays — Controversial,  and  Essays 
— Mixed,  I  have  not  restricted  the  mixed  essay  to  mean  an  interme- 
diary between  the  didactic  and  the  personal  essay,  a  distinction  on 

*  Proposal  for  Amending  the  Laws  of  England.  Bacon's  Works,  Bohn's  edition, 
vol.  i.  p.  669. 


PREFACE.  V 

which  Bulwer-Lytton  insists ;  *  but  I  have  considered  the  word  in  its 
more  ordinary  and  popular  sense.  In  general,  whenever  I  was 
doubtful  as  to  the  character  of  a  piece,  I  have  not  regarded  abstract 
definitions  so  much  as  the  style  of  each  selection,  and  the  expressed 
or  apparent  intent  of  its  author. 

Omissions  in  the  original  texts  are  in  this  volume  noted  by 
dots ;  f  and  words  introduced  for  the  sake  of  continuity  are  en- 
closed in  brackets,  ^  as  are  also  the  biographical,  critical,  and 
explanatory  notes  added  by  me.  On  the  other  hand,  the  notes  of 
the  authors  are  all  printed  without  brackets,  and  may  be  found  in 
the  original  texts. 

It  remains  for  me  to  express  my  gratitude  to  Professor  Robert 
Sharp  and  Mr.  John  Dimitry,  for  having  favored  me  with  many 
suggestions  that  I  have  utilized  to  advantage  in  the  preparation  of 
this  work.  I  wish  also  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  several  pub- 
lishing houses  for  having  permitted  me  to  include  extracts  from  mate- 
rials on  which  they  respectively  own  the  copyrights.  My  thanks  are 
especially  due  to  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Company,  D.  Appleton 
&  Company,  Ticknor  &  Company,  the  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  and 
the  D.  Lothrop  Company. 

T.  M'C. 

NEW  ORLEANS,  April  10,  1894. 

*  Caxtoniana.     Harper  Bros.,  1864,  p.  146. 
t  Thus,     ....  \  Thus,  [    ]. 


CONTENTS. 

PART   I. 
HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

PAOB 

LOUISIANA  AND  HER  LAWS Henry  J.  Leovy 1 

THE  TREE  OF  THE  DEAD Charles  Gayarre 12 

A  SKETCH  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  ACADIA, 
FROM  THE  SETTLEMENT  OF  THE  COL- 
ONY TO  THE  DISPERSION  OF  THE 
INHABITANTS Alcee  Fortier 15 

THE  REVOLUTION  OF  1768  IN  LOUISIANA, 

AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES John  R.  Ficklen 23 

THE  SOUTH'S  FIRST  CROP  OF  SUGAR  ....  Charles  Gayarre 41 

THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS George  W.  Cable 43 

THE  FESTIVITY  AFTER  THE  VICTORY  . . .  .Alexander  Walker 51 

THE  NEAV  ORLEANS  BENCH  AND  BAR 

IN  1823 Charles  Gayarre 54 

THE  OAKS John  Augustin 71 

THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CONFEDERATE 
GOVERNMENT  IN  ITS  DIPLOMACY 
WITH  FOREIGN  NATIONS,  ESPECIALLY 
WITH  ENGLAND  AND  FRANCE Alfred  Roman 88 

THE  BATTLE  OF  SHILOH,  AND  THE  PART 
PLAYED  THEREIN  BY  HENRY  WAT- 
KINS  ALLEN,  EX-GOVERNOR  OF 
LOUISIANA Sarah  A.  Dorsey 93 

THE  BATTLE  OF  CHANCELLORSVILLE Napier  Bartlett 98 


vin  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE    DlSBANDMENT   OF   THE  WASHINGTON 

ARTILLERY  IN  1865 William  Miller  Owen 102 

THE  CONFEDERATE  ADMINISTRATION  AND 

ITS  DOWNFALL Alfred  Boman 107 

ULYSSES  S.  GRANT  AND  BADICALISM Richard  Taylor 110 

PART   II. 

SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

AGAINST  THE  ELIGIBILITY  OF  A  CITIZEN 
BOKN  OUTSIDE  OF  THE  UNITED 
STATES,  TO  THE  GOVERNORSHIP  OR 
LIEUTENANT-GOVERNORSHIP  OF  LOU- 
ISIANA  John  R.  Grymes 115 

THE  SONS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND Seargent  S.  Prentiss 118 

APPEAL  IN  BEHALF  OF  THE  FAMINE- 

'  STRICKEN  IRISH  Seargent  S.  Prentiss 121 

SEARGENT  S.  PRENTISS Henry  A.  Bullard 124 

VIRTUE  THE  CORNER-STONE  OF  REPUBLI- 
CAN GOVERNMENT Judah  P.  Benjamin 128 

THE  COURT  A  TEMPLE  OF  JUSTICE Randell  Hunt 135 

AGAINST  THE  POLICY  OF  IMPASSIVENESS. Pierre  Soule 137 

THE  HIGHWAY  OF  NATIONS Pierre  Soule 140 

IMPORTANT  PUBLIC  SERVICES  OF  HENRY 

CLAY Theodore  H.  M'Caleb 144 

COLLEGIATE  EDUCATION Christian  Roselius 149 

EFFECTS  OF  IGNORANCE  AMONG  THE 

MASSES Christian  Roselius 152 

ON  THE  QUESTION  OF  THE  ANNEXATION 

OF  CUBA  TO  THE  UNITED  STATES  . .  .Judah  P.  Benjamin 154 

NEGROES  AS  PROPERTY Judah  P.  Benjamin 156 

THE  CONFEDERATE  SEAL Thomas  J.  Semmes 160 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

GEORGE    WASHINGTON   AND   EGBERT   E. 

LEE Benjamin  M.  Palmer 165 

THE  END  OF  SECTIONALISM E.  John  Ellis 168--' 

DISCOVERY  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI  VALLEY  . .  Kandall  L.  Gibson 169 

GRACE  IN  WOMAN Benjamin  M.  Palmer 172 

CHIVALRY Emmanuel  de  la  Moriniere.  174 

THE  ORIGINS  OF  SOME  OF  THE  COLONIAL 

FAMILIES  OF  LOUISIANA Charles  Patton  Dimitry . . .   180 

PART   III. 

ESSAYS. 
SECTION   I.      CONTROVERSIAL. 

THE  B ATTURE  CASE Edward  Livingston 185 

SECESSION  AND  COERCION B.  J.  Sage 192 

MR.     CABLE'S     FREEDMAN'S     CASE     IN 

EQUITY Charles  Gayarre 198 

MR.  CABLE,  THE  "  NEGROPHILIST  " B — z    203 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  MODERN  LANGUAGES  ..  John  R.  Ficklen 206 

PART   III. 

ESSAYS. 
SECTION   II.       MIXED. 

THE  HUMMING-BIRD John  J.  Audubon 215 

THE  WOOD  THRUSH John  J.  Audubon 218 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD John  J.  Audubon 220 

THE   RELATION   BETWEEN   THE    LITERA- 
TURES OF  GREECE  AND  HINDOSTAN.  .Alexander  Dimitry 222 

THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH 

AMONG  THE  ANGLO-SAXONS Robert  Sharp 226 


x  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  EARLY  LITERATURE  OF  SPAIN J.  D.  B.  de  Bow. 239 

PETRARCH  AND  LAURA Eichard  Henry  Wilde  ....  244 

MACBETH William  Preston  Johnston .  247 

CERVANTES  AND  THE  DON  QUIXOTE Auguste  d'Avezac 263 

LE  SAGE  AND  THE  GIL  BLAS Auguste  d'Avezac 266 

BERNARDIN'S  PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA Auguste  d'Avezac 268 

LA  FONTAINE Charles  Gayarr6 270 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  MYTH William  Preston  Johnston.  276 

THE  BOOK-MEN T.  Wharton  Collens 286 

DUELLING Etienne  Mazureau 297 

THE  JUDICIARY Francois-Xavier  Martin. . .  299 

THE  MODEL  JUDGE Gustavus  Schmidt 301 

OUR  ILLUSIONS William  H.  Holcombe 310 

AN  OFFICER'S  DUTIES  IN  TIME  OF  W^AR.P.  G.  T.  Beauregard 318 

MAGICIANS  AND  FEATHER  DUSTERS Julia  K.  AVetherill  Baker  .  320 

QUEEN  ANNE  FRONTS  AND  MARY  ANNE 

BACKS Martha  E.  Field 325 

PAET   IV. 
FICTION. 

THE  STORY  OF  IZANACHI  AND  IZANANI. Frank  McGloin 333 

ESTHER'S  CHOICE Lafcadio  Hearn 338 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  GROTTO Albert  Delpit 342 

LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC John  Dimitry 347 

THE  BANQUET Alfred  Merrier 373 

THE  DEVOTION  OF  MARCELITE Grace  King 376 

ON  THE  WATCH Charles  Patton  Dimitry . .  .  389 

A  MORNING-GLORY M.  E.  M.  Davis 393 

MADELEINE  AND  BERTHA Edward  Dessommes 400 

LAMENTATIONS  OF  JEREMIAH  JOHNSON.  .Euth  McEnery  Stuart 406 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PART   V. 
POETRY. 

SECTION   I.       DRAMATIC. 

PAGE 

THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS  ;  OR,  LOUISIANA 

IN   1769 T.  Wharton  Collens 421 

PARRHASIUS  ;  OR,  THRIFTLESS  AMBITION  .  Espy  W.  H.  Williams  ....  473 

PART   V. 
POETRY. 

SECTION   II.       MISCELLANEOUS. 

MY  LIFE  is  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE  . .  .Richard  Henry  Wilde 491 

THE  POET'S  LAMENT Richard  Henry  Wilde 492 

To  THE  MOCKING-BIRD Richard  Henry  Wilde 493 

ADIEU  TO  INNISFAIL Richard  d' Alton  Williams .  494 

SISTER  OF  CHARITY Richard  d' Alton  Williams .  496 

THE  FIRST  AND  SECOND  BIRTH James  T.  Smith 498- 

THE  MOTHER'S  SONG James  T.  Smith 500 

MARY  QUEEN  OF   SCOTS'  FAREWELL William  Preston  Johnston.  502 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE John  Dimitry 504 

THE  EXILE  TO  HIS  WIFE Joseph  Brennan 505 

LORD,  KEEP  MY  MEMORY  GREEN! Anna  Peyre  Dinnies 507 

THE  WIFE Anna  Peyre  Dinnies 509 

POWERS'S  GREEK  SLAVE Anna  Peyre  Dinnies 510 

THE    WILD    LILY    AND    THE    PASSION- 
FLOWER  Adrien  Rouquette 511 

To  NATURE,  MY  MOTHER Adrien  Rouquette 513 

To  A  MINIATURE John  W.  Overall 514 

THE  BARDS John  W.  Overall 516 

AT  THE  THEATRE Henry  Lynden  Flash 519 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

WHAT  SHE  BROUGHT  ME Henry  Lynden  Flash 521 

WHO  CAN  TELL  ? Henry  Lynden  Flash 523 

THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG Harry  McCarthy 524 

MY  MARYLAND James  R.  Randall 526 

JOHX  PELHAM James  R.  Randall 529 

IN  MEMORIAM John  Dimitry 531 

ZOLLICOFFER Henry  Lynden  Flash 533 

"  STONEWALL  "  JACKSON Henry  Lynden  Flash 534 

LINES  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  FATHER  TURGIS.  T.  Wharton  Collens 535 

0,  TEMPORA  !  0,  MORES  ! J.  Dickson  Bruns 537 

A  RHYME  OF  MODERN  VENICE Charles  Fatten  Dimitry. . .  540 

THE  BACKWOODSMAN'S  DAUGHTER Mary  Ashley  Townsend. . .  542 

CREED Mary  Ashley  Townsend . . .  547 

To  ONE  BELOVED Mary  Ashley  Townsend. . .  549 

LAKE  PONTCHARTRAIN Mary  Ashley  Townsend . . .  550 

THE  PICTURE William  H.  Holcombe. . . .   551 

PERE  DAGOBERT M.  E.  M.  Davis 552 

THROWING  THE  WANGA M.  E.  M.  Davis 556 

MY  LOVE  WENT  SAILING  O'ER  THE  SEA.M.  E.  M.  Davis 560 

SILENCE M.  E.  M.  Davis 561 

COUNSEL M.  E.  M.  Davis 562 

FOR  THEE,  MY  LOVE,  FOR  THEE Mark  F.  Bigney 563 

I'VE  KISSED  HER  IN  A  DREAM Mark  F.  Bigney 565 

HAGAR Eliza  J.  Nicholson 566 

WAITING Eliza  J.  Nicholson 571 

ONLY  A  HEART Eliza  J.  Nicholson 572 

DREAMS  OF  THE  PAST R.  N.  Ogden 574 

THE  LIGHT  OF  THINE  EYES R,  N.  Ogden 577 

THE  HOUSE  IMMORTAL Richard  Nixon 578 

SIR  WILLIAM  THOMSON'S  AEROLITH Richard  Nixon 579 

SWINBURNE Richard  Nixon 580 

WHEN  ALL  is  SAID.  .  .  .Julia  K.  Wetherill  Baker  .  581 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 

WITH  TITLES  OF  THE  SELECTIONS  FROM  THEIR  PRODUCTIONS. 

AUDUBON,  JOHN  J.  PAGE 

The  Humming-Bird, 215 

The  Wood  Thrush, 218 

The  Mocking-Bird,          .        .     .   .        .        . 220 

AUGUSTIN,  JOHN. 

The  Oaks,            71 

BAKER,  JULIA  K.  WETHERILL. 

Magicians  and  Feather  Dusters,  320 

When  All  is  Said, 581 

BARTLETT,  XAPIER. 

The  Battle  of  Chancellorsville, 98 

BEAUREGARD,  P.  G.  T. 

An  Officer's  Duties  in  Time  of  War,  ....  .  318 

BEXJAMIX,  JUDAH  P. 

Virtue  the  Corner-Stone  of  ^Republican  Government, 128 

On  the  Question  of  the  Annexation  of  Cuba  to  the  United  States,    .        .  154 

Xegroes  as  Property, 156 

BIGNEY,  MARK  F. 

For  Thee,  my  Love,  for  Thee,  563 

I've  Kissed  Her  in  a  Dream,  565 

BRENNAN,  JOSEPH. 

The  Exile  to  his  Wife, 505 

BRUNS,  J.  DICKSOX. 

0,  Tempora  !  0,  Mores ! 537 

BULLARD,  HENRY  A. 

Seargent  S.  Prentiss, 124 

B z. 

Mr.  Cable,  the  "Xegrophilist," 203 

CABLE.  GEORGE  W. 

The  Battle  of  New  Orleans, 43 

COLLENS,  T.  WHARTON. 

The  Book-Men, 286 

The  Martyr  Patriots  ;  or,  Louisiana  in  1769,     .......  421 

Lines  to  the  Memory  of  Father  Turgis, 535 


xiv  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

D'AVEZAC,  AUGUSTS.'  PAGE 

Cervantes  and  the  Don  Quixote,          .        .        .      -  .        .  ',     .        .        .  263 

Le  Sage  and  the  Gil  Bias .                 .  266 

Bernardin's  Paul  and  Virginia, '.  268 

DAVIS,  M.  E.  M. 

A  Morning-Glory ,            .        .        .  393 

Pere  Dagobert,            .     . •    .         ...        .  552 

Throwing  the  Wanga, 556 

My  Love  went  Sailing  o'er  the  Sea,             560 

Silence, 561 

Counsel, .  562 

DEBow,  J.  D.  B. 

The  Early  Literature  of  Spain, 239 

DE  LA  MORINIERE,  EMMANUEL. 

Chivalry, .  174 

DELPIT,  ALBERT. 

The  Mysterious  Grotto,            .  , 342 

DESSOMMES,  EDWARD. 

Madeleine  and  Bertha, 400 

DIMITRY,  ALEXANDER. 

The  Relation  between  the  Literatures  of  Greece  and  Hindostan,           .         .  222 

DIMITRY,  CHARLES  PATTON. 

The  Origins  of  Some  of  the  Colonial  Families  of  Louisiana,      ...  180 

On  the  Watch,         .         .         .         .         .        .        ...        ...         .  389 

A  Rhyme  of  Modern  Venice,      .         .         .        .         .        .        ,        «        .  540 

DIMITRY,  JOHN. 

Le  Tombeau  Blanc, 347 

Edgar  Allan  Poe ......  504 

In  Memoriam, •  '..       .       ..        ^        .        .        .  531 

DINNIES,  ANNA  PEYRE. 

Lord,  Keep  my  Memory  Green  ! 507 

The  Wife,        .        .        .        ...        ...... 509 

Powers's  Greek  Slave,         .        .       ". 510 

DORSEY,  SARAH  A. 

The  Battle  of  Shiloh  and  the  Part  Played  therein  by  Henry  Watkins  Allen, 

Ex-Governor  of  Louisiana, 93 

ELLIS,  E.  JOHN. 

The  End  of  Sectionalism, 168 

FICKLEN,  JOHN  R. 

The  Revolution  of  1768  in  Louisiana,  and  its  Consequences,          ...  23 

A  Plea  for  the  Modern  Languages, 206 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  xv 

FIELD,  MARTHA  R.  PAGE 

Queen  Anne  Fronts  and  Mary  Anne  Backs, 325 

FLASH,  HENRY  LYNDEN. 

At  the  Theatre, 519 

What  She  Brought  me,            521 

Who  Can  Tell  ? 523 

Zollicoffer, 533 

"  Stonewall "  Jackson, 534 

FORTIER,  ALC£E. 

A  Sketch  of  the  History  of  Acadia,  from  the  Settlement  of  the  Colony  to  the 

Dispersion  of  the  Inhabitants, 15 

GAYARR£,  CHARLES. 

The  Tree  of  the  Dead,  .      - 12 

The  South's  First  Crop  of  Sugar,  .  41 

The  New  Orleans  Bench  and  Bar  in  1823 54 

Mr.  Cable's  Freedmari's  Case  in  Equity, 198 

La  Fontaine, 270 

GIBSON,  RANDALL  L. 

Discovery  of  the  Mississippi  Valley, 169 

GRYMES,  JOHN  R. 

Against  the  Eligibility  of  a  Citizen  Born  outside  of  the  United  States,  to  the 

Governorship  or  Lieutenant-Governorship  of  Louisiana,        ...  115 

HEARN,  LAFCADIO. 

Esther's  Choice, 338 

HOLCOMBE,  WILLIAM  H. 

Our  Illusions, 310 

The  Picture,  551 

HUNT,  RANDELL. 

The  Court  a  Temple  of  Justice, 135 

JOHNSTON,  WILLIAM  PRESTON. 

Macbeth, / 247 

The  Origin  of  Myth, 276 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots'  Farewell, 502 

KING,  GRACE. 

The  Devotion  of  Marcelite, 376 

LEOVY,  HENRY  J. 

Louisiana  and  her  Laws, 1 

LIVINGSTON,  EDWARD. 

The  Batture  Case,       .        .        /.^        .......  185 


xvi  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

MARTIN,  FRANCOIS-XAVIER.  PAGE 

The  Judiciary, '   ."      .        .         .        .  299 

MAZUREAU,  ETIENNE. 

Duelling, 297 

M'CALEB,  THEODORE  H. 

Important  Public  Services  of  Henry  Clay, 144 

MCCARTHY,  HARRY. 

The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag, ,.  .  .  .  524 

McGLOiN,  FRANK. 

The  Story  of  Izanachi  and  Izanani, 333 

MERCIER,  ALFRED. 

The  Banquet, 373 

NICHOLSON,  ELIZA  J. 

Hagar, 566 

Waiting, 571 

Only  a  Heart, 572 

NIXON,  RICHARD. 

The  House  Immortal,          .        .         ,         .        '.  .  .                 .        .             578 

Sir  William  Thomson's  Aerolith,            .        .  ...  .        .        .         .        579 

Swinburne,          '  . •    '.  .        .        .        .             580 

OGDEN,  R.  N. 

Dreams  of  the  Past, 574 

The  Light  of  Thine  Eyes, 577 

OVERALL,  JOHN  W. 

To  a  Miniature, 514 

The  Bards,          ... 516 

OWEN,  WILLIAM  MILLER. 

The  Disbandment  of  the  Washington  Artillery  in  1865,         .        ...        .         102 

PALMER,  BENJAMIN  M. 

George  Washington  and  Robert  E.  Lee, 165 

Grace  in  Woman, 172 

PRENTISS,  SEARGENT  S. 

The  Sons  of  New  England, 118 

Appeal  in  Behalf  of  the  Famine-stricken  Irish, 121 

RANDALL,  JAMES  R. 

My  Maryland, 526 

JohnPelham, 529 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  xvii 

ROMAN,  ALFRED.  PAGE 
The  Failure  of  the  Confederate  Government  in  its  Diplomacy  with  Foreign 

Nations,  especially  with  England  and  France, 88 

The  Confederate  Administration  and  its  Downfall, 107 

ROSELIUS,  CHRISTIAN. 

Collegiate  Education 149 

Effects  of  Ignorance  among  the  Masses, 152 

ROUQUETTE,  ADRIEN. 

The  Wild  Lily  and  the  Passion-Flower, 511 

To  Nature,  my  Mother, 513 

SAGE,  B.  J. 

Secession  and  Coercion 192 

SCHMIDT,  GUSTAVUS. 

The  Model  Judge, .  ...  .  301 

SEMMES,  THOMAS  J. 

The  Confederate  Seal, 160 

SHARP,  ROBERT. 

The  Period  of  Childhood  and  Youth  among  the  Anglo-Saxons,  .  .  .  226 
SMITH,  JAMES  T. 

The  First  and  Second  Birth, 498 

The  Mother's  Song, 500 

SOULS',  PIERRE. 

Against  the  Policy  of  Impassiveness, 137 

The  Highway  of  Nations, 140 

STUART,  RUTH  MCENERY. 

Lamentations  of  Jeremiah  Johnson, 406 

TAYLOR,  RICHARD. 

Ulysses  S.  Grant  and  Radicalism, 110 

TOWNSEND,  MARY  ASHLEY. 

The  Backwoodsman's  Daughter, 542 

Creed, 547 

To  One  Beloved, 549 

Lake  Pontchartrain, 550 

WALKER,  ALEXANDER. 

The  Festivity  after  the  Victory, 51 

WILDE,  RICHARD  HENRY.  ' 

Petrarch  and  Laura, 244 

My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rose, 491 

2 


xviii  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

The  Poet's  Lament,         .        .        . 492 

To  the  Mocking-Bird, -  .        .        .       ' . .       .  493 

WILLIAMS,  ESPY  W.  H. 

Parrhasius ;  or,  Thriftless  Ambition,     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  473 

WILLIAMS,  RICHARD  D'ALTON. 

Adieu  to  Innisfail, ..'•-.  494 

Sister  of  Charity 496 


PART   I. 
HISTORICAL    SKETCHES. 


LOUISIANA  AND   HEK  LAWS.* 

BY    HENRY    J.    LEOVY. 

[HENRY  JEFFERSON  LEOVY  was  born  in  Augusta,  Ga.,  May  17,  1826.  At  a  tender 
age  he  was  brought  by  his  family  to  Louisiana.  In  1849  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  of  the 
State.  He  owned  and  published  for  many  years,  with  the  late  P.  E.  Bonford  and  others, 
the  New  Orleans  Delta,  which  was  "seized"  by  General  Butler  in  1862.  Mr.  Leovy 
served  with  gallantry  in  the  Confederate  army  (1861-'6o).  In  1870  he  was  elected  City 
Attorney  of  New  Orleans.  He  is  one  of  the  most  erudite  and  prominent  lawyers  of 
Louisiana.] 

WE  propose  giving  as  briefly  as  possible  an  outline  of  the  legal 
history  of  Louisiana.  We  would  premise  for  the  benefit  of  the  unini- 
tiated that  there  are  two  grand  systems  of  law  known  to  the  civilized 
world.  The  one,  the  Common  law,  composed  of  the  Customary  and 
Statutory  law  of  England,  is  now  the  law  of  that  country  and  of 
twenty-eight  of  the  States  of  this  Union ;  f  the  other,  the  Corpus 
juris  Oivilis,  or  Civil  law,  is  now  taught  and  obeyed  not  only  in 
France,  Germany,  Holland,  and  Scotland,  but  in  the  islands  of  the 
Indian  Ocean,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi  and  the  St.  Law- 
rence. In  this  we  see  exemplified  the  great  D'Aguesseau's  remark, 
that  "  the  grand  destinies  of  Rome  are  not  yet  accomplished ;  she 
reigns  throughout  the  world  by  her  reason,  after  having  ceased  to 
reign  by  her  authority."  The  Roman  or  Civil  law  is  founded  upon 
the  royal  constitutions  of  its  first  kings,  on  the  Twelve  Tables,  the 
statutes  enacted  by  the  Senate  and  the  People,  the  Pretorial  edicts, 
the  opinions  of  learned  lawyers  and  the  Imperial  Decrees.  From 
these  numerous  sources  was  formed  an  immense  reservoir  of  both 
useful  and  useless  laws,  a  part  of  which  were  first  codified  by  Theo- 
dosius,  then  the  whole  under  Justinian,  in  533,  by  Tribonian  and 
others.  The  body  of  law  thus  compiled  and  finished  consists  of  the 
Institutes  in  four  books,  the  Pandects  in  fifty,  the  Imperial  Code  in 
twelve  books,  and  the  Novels  or  New  Constitutions. 

It  is  the  general  belief  that  this  old  Roman  law,  modified  and 
polished  by  the  wisdom  of  French  and  Spanish  enactments,  is  the 
existing  system  of  jurisprudence  in  Louisiana.  This  opinion,  though 
true  in  the  main,  needs  some  qualification.  Our  laws  are  a  texture 

*  [Reprinted  from  The  New  Orleans  Book  (1851).]  f  [1851.] 


2  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

composed  of  the  best  materials,  from  both  the  English  Common  and 
the  Roman  Civil  law.  Other  States  and  other  nations  have  contented 
themselves  with  adopting,  without  change  or  modification,  either  the 
one  or  the  oth^r  of  the>e  systems.  Our  plan  is  the  interweaving  of 
the  two,  the  mingling  of  both  as  the  colors  mingle  in  the  rainbow, 
and.  so  imperceptibly,  thai,  like  the  verge  of  the  horizon  and  sea,  none 
but  the  most  experienced  eyes  can  discern  the  distinctive  line  between 
them. 

Each  of  the  two  grand  systems  has  its  imperfections,  as  well  as 
virtues.  The  Civil  law  is  defective  in  its  public,  the  Common  law  in 
its  private  relations.  There  are  but  few  writers,  acquainted  with  the 
relative  merits  of  the  Common  and  Civil  law,  that  do  not  unhesi- 
tatingly declare  that  in  all  the  relations  between  man  and  man  the 
Roman  law  is  infinitely  superior  to  the  English  law ;  while  in  all  the 
public  relations — in  all  that  exists  between  government  and  man, 
between  society  as  a  whole  and  man  as  a  part — in  all  that  concerns 
the  protection  of  the  property  and  liberty  of  the  individual,  there  has 
been  in  no  country,  nor  does  there  anywhere  exist,  a  system  at  all 
comparable  to  the  Common  law.  Brown,  speaking  of  Rome  in  his 
work  on  the  Civil  law,  remarks  that  "  it  was  the  peculiar  glory  of  the 
nation  which  subdued  the  world  to  furnish  mankind  with  a  code  of 
laws  containing  the  most  perfect  system  of  justice  and  equity,  between 
man  and  man,  that  has  ever  been  produced  by  human  invention." 
But,  says  Montesquieu,  "  Liberty  was  in  the  centre,  and  slavery  in 
all  its  extremities,"  and  adds  the  writer  first  quoted  from,  "  In  the 
criminal  law,  in  that  great  palladium  of  liberty,  the  jury,  we  are 
immeasurably  in  advance  of  the  Roman  code;  and  here,  upon  the 
whole,  is  the  glory  of  the  English  system."  Kent,  too,  after  express- 
ing his  preference  for  many  parts  of  the  Civil  law,  concludes  that  "  in 
everything  which  concerns  civil  and  political  liberty,  the  Civil  law 
cannot  be  compared  to  the  free  spirit  of  the  English  and  American 
Common  law."  None  were  more  aware  of  the  relative  merits  and 
defects  of  the  two  systems  than  the  American  and  French  juris- 
consults who  found  themselves  in  Louisiana  on  its  adoption  into  the 
Union.  The  United  States,  by  the  act  of  1804,  left  to  the  people  of 
Louisiana  the  task  of  legislating  for  themselves,  and  gave  them  the 
power  to  make  such  changes  in  their  system  of  laws  as  they  might  in 
their  wisdom  deem  necessary.  They  found  the  Civil  law  with  all  its 
unwieldy  incumbrances  harnessed  upon  them.  They  felt  that  great 
and  many  difficulties  would  arise  by  engrafting  new  principles  on  the 
political  system  of  the  Union.  They  knew  that  by  adopting  the  Civil 
law,  without  amendment,  they  would  be  introducing  into  the  Union  a 
jingling  and  discordant  element.  To  so  model  this  system  as  to  make 


LOUISIANA   AND  HER  LAWS.  3 

it  harmonize  with  the  laws  of  the  Federal  Government  and  neighbor- 
ing States,  was  a  difficult  task.  But  the  legal  minds  of  that  day  were 
strong,  nor  were  they  bound  to  ,or  prejudiced  in  favor  of  or  against 
any  system.  They  took  a  view  of  the  work  before  them  from  a  more 
elevated  point  than  that  selected  by  the  strictly  Common  or  Civil 
lawyer.  Hence,  they  produced,  from  the  more  abundant  material 
before  them,  a  code  of  laws  that  will  vie  with  the  most  perfect  system 
the  world  has  yet  produced.  Almost  the  very  first  act  made  by  these 
legislators,  enacted  in  1805,  declared  that  all  crimes,  offences,  and  mis- 
demeanors should  be  taken,  intended,  and  construed  according  to,  and 
in  conformity  with,  the  Common  law  of  England  ;  then  followed,  in 
1812,  the  framing  and  adoption  of  the  State  constitution,  which  was 
almost  in  every  respect  similar  to  those  adopted  by  the  neighboring 
States,  most  of  whose  principles  were  borrowed  from  the  Common 
law  of  England.  Here,  then,  in  our  fundamental  and  legislative  enact- 
ments, in  all  the  public  relations  we  recognized  and  adopted  the  Com- 
mon law,  and,  as  may  be  inferred,  almost  everything  relating  to  the 
private  relations  which  had  already  been  engrafted  on  the  country 
was  suffered  to  remain.  It  is  true  that  some  excrescences  were  pruned, 
some  redundancies  and  remnants  of  the  old  Roman  tyranny  in  the 
domestic  relations  were  lopped  off,  but  the  whole  system  worked  the 
better  and  gave  more  satisfaction  on  account  of  these  changes. 

It  will  thus  be  seen  by  the  Bar  of  other  States  that,  though  we 
consider  ourselves  governed  by  the  Civil  law,  there  is  much  in  common 
between  themselves  and  us,  and  that  our  laws  approximate  nearer  to 
the  Common  law  than  is  generally  imagined.  Nor  is  this  all.  No  one 
who  has  at  all  studied  the  gradual  formation  of  our  system  can  have 
failed  to  observe  the  leaning  of  our  Supreme  Court  for  years  past 
towards  the  Common  law.  This  is  not  only  perceptible  but  the  com- 
mon remark  of  our  Bar.  After  all,  the  form  of  proceedings  in  our 
courts  is  the  most  marked  boundary  between  our  law  and  that  of  our 
neighbors.  We  have  often  heard  Common  law  lawyers  express  their 
sympathy  for  those  Eomans  who  lived  before  the  age  of  Justinian, 
because,  though  the  people  were  possessed  of  certain  rights,  they 
could  not  of  themselves  obtain  them,  because  of  the  mystery  and 
mummery  of  the  proceedings  with  which  no  ordinary  individual  could 
become  acquainted.  They  never  for  a  moment  reflect,  that  among 
themselves  the  same  odious  objection  exists,  and  that  their  people  are 
as  much  in  need  of  an  interpreter  as  were  the  old  Romans  with  whom 
they  so  much  sympathize.  Our  system  is  not  open  to  this  objection. 
Our  pleadings  almost  equal  in  simplicity  those  of  the  old  Saxons  in 
their  Witenagemote,  where  the  parties  simply  related  to  the  Court 
the  tale  of  their  grievances,  without  adorning  or  varnishing,  without 


4  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

technicality  or  equivocation.  In  this  great  distinctive  feature,  then, 
we  flatter  ourselves,  we  are  in  advance  of  both  our  neighbors  and  the 
Federal  Government ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  we  think  we  can  perceive 
in  them  an  inclination  to  simplify  their  judicial  proceedings  as  we 
have  done. 

Besides  this  there  is  more  of  the  old  Roman  law  in  the  very  foun- 
dation of  the  English  jurisprudence  than  the  Common  law  advocate  is 
willing  to  admit.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Roman  law  was 
early  introduced  into  Britain  while  that  country  was  in  possession  of 
the  Romans.  Chancellor  Kent  thinks  the  Civil  law  was  administered 
there  by  the  illustrious  Papinian,  aided  by  Paulus  and  Ulpian.  The 
elegant  Selden  is  of  the  same  opinion,  as  is  also  Crabbe.  It  must,  then, 
have  existed  in  Britain  a  long  time ;  and  laws — particularly  such  as 
the  Roman  laws — thus  early  introduced  and  thus  long  existing,  must 
leave  an  impress,  not  easily  obliterated,  on  the  manners  and  customs 
of  a  people.  Crabbe  acknowledges  many  remnants  of  the  Civil  law 
still  existing  in  England.  Again,  no  three  men  more  aided  in  the 
formation  of  the  Common  law,  than  did  Bracton,  Britton  and  Fleta ; 
their  opinions  were  law,  their  dicta  commands. 

Now,  these  great  jurisconsults  all  lived  and  wrote  after  the  twelfth 
century ;  and  it  must  be  remembered  that  it  was  in  1135,  at  Amalfl, 
that  the  Roman  Pandects  were  discovered,  which  have  greatly  influ- 
enced those  writers.  Brown,  in  his  work  on  the  Civil  law,  declares 
unhesitatingly  that  those  authors  shine  in  the  borrowed  plumes  of  the 
Roman  writers.  And,  besides  this,  we  all  know  that  ever  since  the  time 
of  Stephen,  over  all  matters  within  the  jurisdiction  of  the  Ecclesiastical 
and  Chancery  courts,  and  over  all  matters  military  and  maritime,  the 
Civil  law  has  always  obtained.  Kent  says, "  It  now  exerts  a  very  consid- 
erable influence  upon  our  municipal  law,  and  particularly  on  those  parts 
of  it  which  are  of  equity  and  admiralty  jurisdiction,  or  fall  within  the 
cognizance  of  the  surrogate's  or  consistorial  courts."  The  fact,  then, 
that  within  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  Common  law  many  seeds  of 
the  Civil  are  found ;  that  while  the  tendencies  of  the  Common  law  are 
silently  leaning  towards  us,  we  are  in  our  decisions  and  laws  inclining 
towards  it,  leads  irresistibly  to  the  conclusion  that  ere  long,  perfected 
by  the  hands  of  able  judges  and  jurists,  one  system  of  laws — not 
Roman — not  English,  but  AMERICAN,  will  extend  and  panoply  itself, 
like  the  blue  arch  of  heaven,  over  the  whole  American  continent. 

We  have,  we  fear,  too  long  indulged  in  a  general  view  of  the 
philosophy  of  our  law ;  we  will  now  discuss  the  subject  proper  of 
this  article  and  briefly  touch  upon  the  history  of  our  law. 

As  is  well  known,  the  Mississippi  River  was  discovered  as  early 
as  1541,  by  Hernando  de  Soto.  He  had  been  sent  by  Charles  Y.  of 


LOUISIANA   AND  HER  LAWS.  5 

Spain  to  conquer  Florida,  which  having  done,  and  being  tempted  by 
extravagant  tales  of  its  wealth,  he  extended  his  travels  far  into  the 
interior  of  Arkansas. 

The  French,  in  1673,  having  become  permanently  settled  in  Can- 
ada, made  many  excursions  to  the  wilds  of  the  West.  Among  others 
was  one  headed  by  a  priest  known  as  Father  Marquette,  and  a  com- 
panion named  Joliet.  Hearing,  during  their  excursion,  of  a  mighty 
river  called  Meschacebe  (Father  of  Waters)  by  the  Indians,  they  deter- 
mined to  visit  it  before  ending  their  journey.  Engaging  four  Indian 
guides,  they  with  some  difficulty  reached  the  Meschacebe  on  the  7th 
July,  1673. 

In  1678  Kobert  Chevalier  de  la  Salle  offered  his  services  to  the 
Governor  of  Canada,  promising  to  explore  the  Mississippi  to  its 
mouth,  on  condition  that  he  should  be  provided  with  the  proper  and 
necessary  means.  Obtaining  the  assistance  of  Colbert  and  of  the  Prince 
of  Conti,  he  succeeded  in  acquiring  the  needed  means  from  Louis  XIV. 
He  reached  the  Mississippi  in  1682,  and  for  his  protection  founded  the 
now  flourishing  city  of  St.  Louis.  He  explored  this  mighty  river  to 
its  mouth,  and  in  accordance  with  the  then  custom,  claimed,  in  the 
name  of  France,  by  right  of  discovery,  the  whole  of  the  vast  valley 
through  which  the  river  flowed.  He  took  possession  of  it  with  the 
usual  formalities,  and  named  it,  in  honor  of  his  king — LOUISIANA. 

In  1684  La  Salle  made  an  attempt  to  colonize  Louisiana;  but, 
landing  at  the  Bay  of  St.  Bernard,  through  the  mismanagement  of 
the  naval  commander  he  failed,  and  with  his  failure  lost  his  life. 
During  his  stay  at  St.  Bernard — near  Matagorda — he  took  formal 
possession  of  the  country  in  the  name  of  France.  Through  this  act 
France  always  claimed  that  Louisiana  extended  as  far  as  the  Eio 
Grande.  La  Salle  was  killed  in  1687.  His  death  was  a  romantic  one, 
but  our  space  will  not  admit  of  a  description.  From  this  time  to  1797 
Louisiana  was  forgotten ;  but  France  in  that  year,  having  concluded 
the  Peace  of  Ryswick,  directed  her  serious  attention  to  the  subject 
of  its  colonization.  D'Iberville  was  sent  to  renew  the  explorations 
commenced  by  La  Salle.  He  left  his  brothers  Sauville  and  Bienville 
with  a  small  company  at  the  Balize,  and  returned  to  France.  After 
succeeding  in  establishing  a  small  settlement  in  Louisiana,  he  died  at 
Havana  in  1706. 

France  having  become  again  involved  in  war,  and  not  being  able 
to  devote  proper  attention  to  this  new  colony,  sold  in  1712  the  entire 
country  to  Antoine  de  Crozat,  for  the  term  of  sixteen  years.  The 
Government  retained  only  the  prerogative  of  sovereignty.  Crozat 
failed  in  his  enterprise,  and,  after  ruining  himself  and  his  friends, 
surrendered,  in  1717,  all  his  rights  and  privileges.  Crozat  was  imme- 


6  HISTORICAL   SKETCHES. 

diately  followed  by  the  Mississippi  Company.  They  obtained  from 
the  French  Government  a  charter  to  continue  for  tweiity-five  years, 
granting  them  every  possible  power,  reserving  the  empty  title 
of  sovereign  power.  Louisiana  was  then  a  part  of  the  Diocese  of 
Quebec. 

In  1718  Bienville,  feeling  the  need  of  a  metropolis,  selected  the  site 
now  covered  by  NEW  ORLEANS. 

In  1722  Louisiana  was  divided  into  nine  cantons — New  Orleans, 
Biloxi,  Mobile,  Alabama,  Natchez,  Natchitoches,  Yazoo,  Arkansas,  and 
Illinois.  Most  of  these  cantons  were  named  from  the  respective 
Indian  tribes  that  inhabited  them.  During  the  time  the  Mississippi 
Company  held  this  territory,  many  bloody  battles  were  fought  between 
the  Indians  and  the  whites,  which  resulted  in  their  almost  complete 
subjugation. 

The  Mississippi  Company,  having  sustained  great  loss,  concluded  in 
1732  to  abandon  their  enterprise,  and  accordingly  relinquished  to  the 
king  the  charter  he  had  given  them. 

On  the  3d  of  November,  1762,  France  concluded  with  Spain  a 
secret  treaty,  by  which  "  the  former  ceded  to  the  latter  the  part  of  the 
province  of  Louisiana  which  lies  on  the  western  side  of  the  Mississippi, 
with  the  city  of  New  Orleans  and  the  island  on  which  it  stands." 
Antonio  de  IJlloa  was  appointed  by  Charles  III.  in  1766  to  take  pos- 
session, in  the  name  of  Spain,  of  the  country ;  but  the  people  resisted, 
and  Ulloa  was  compelled  to  return  to  Spain.  In  1769  Captain-General 
O'Reilly  arrived  from  Spain  with  a  large  force  and  took  possession  of 
the  country  without  resistance. 

Under  the  dominion  of  France,  the  administration  consisted  of  a 
Governor,  an  Intendant,  a  Commissary,  and  a  Comptroller.  In  1790  a 
Superior  Council  had  been  created,  composed  of  two  Lord-Lieutenants, 
four  Counsellors,  an  Attorney-General,  and  a  Recorder ;  several  judges 
had  likewise  been  appointed.  The  Governor  was  ex  officio  President 
of  the  Council.  This  organization  was  set  aside  by  O'Reilly,  who 
established  in  the  King's  royal  name  a  City  Council,  or,  as  it  was 
termed,  a  Cabildo,  for  the  administration  of  justice  and  preservation 
of  order  in  the  city,  aided  by  six  perpetual  Regidors,  all  conformably 
to  the  second  law  of  the  Recopilacion  de  las  Indias,  among  whom 
were  distributed  the  offices  of  Alferez  Royal,  Alcalde,  Mayor  provin- 
cial, Alguazil  Mayor,  Depositary  General  and  receiver  of  penas  de 
camara,  or  fines  for  the  use  of  the  General  Treasury.  O'Reilly's  proc- 
lamation, which  contained  a  synopsis  of  the  Spanish  law  (to  be  found 
in  Schmidt's  Journal  of  August,  1841),  was  made  because  the  "  limited 
knowledge  which  the  king's  new  subjects  possess  of  the  Spanish  laws 
might  render  a  strict  observance  of  them  difficult ;  and  as  every  abuse 


LOUISIANA   AND  HER  LAWS.  7 

is  contrary  to  the  intention  of  his  Majesty,  it  is  thought  needful  and 
necessary  to  form  an  abstract  or  regulation  drawn  from  the  said  laws, 
which  may  serve  for  instruction  and  elementary  formulary  in  the 
administration  of  justice,  and  in  the  economical  government  of  the 
city,  until  a  more  general  knowledge  of  the  Spanish  language  may 
enable  every  one,  by  the  perusal  aforesaid,  to  extend  his  information 
to  every  point  thereof."  This,  therefore,  was  only  temporary  law,  and 
soon,  fulfilling  its  purpose,  ceased  to  exist.  But  a  more  important 
question  arises :  Did  O'Reilly's  proclamation  repeal  the  old  French 
laws  and  customs  ?  By  the  Fifteenth  Article  of  the  Mississippi  Com- 
pany's charter,  it  is  said  that  the  "  Judges  established  in  the  aforesaid 
places  shall  be  held  to  judge  according  to  the  Laws  and  Ordinances  of 
the  'kingdom  (of  France) ;  and  to  conform  themselves  to  the  Provosty 
and  Viscounty  of  Paris."  This  provision  is  also  found  in  Crozat's 
charter,  and  is  in  fact  the  foundation  of  the  Civil  law  of  Louisiana ; 
and  of  this  the  customs  of  Paris  are  the  basis.  Now,  whether  these 
fundamental  laws  have  been  repealed  by  the  proclamation  of  O'Reilly 
is  a  question  yet  disputed  and  of  much  interest.  Mr.  Jefferson  seems 
to  have  thought  the  French  laws  but  partially  repealed,  while  Judge 
Martin  in  his  History  inclines  to  the  contrary  opinion.  Happily,  as 
Judge  Martin  observes  in  his  History,  the  Spanish  laws  and  those  of 
France  proceed  from  the  same  origin ;  and,  from  the  similarity,  the 
transition  from  Spanish  to  French  was  scarcely  felt  by  the  inhabi- 
tants, and  the  existence  or  non-existence  of  the  old  French  law  is  now 
of  not  the  least  practical  importance.  The  Spaniards  governed  Louisi- 
ana from  1769  till  its  return  to  France  on  the  30th  November,  1803. 
France  held  it  but  twenty  days,  and  made  no  change  in  the  Spanish 
laws.  The  people  of  Louisiana,  under  the  Spanish  regime,  were 
governed  by  the  Fuero  Viego,  Fuero  Juzco,  Partidas,  Recopilaciones, 
Leyes  de  las  Indias,  Autos  Accordados,  and  Royal  Schedules.  To 
explain  these,  Spanish  commentators  were  consulted,  and  the  Corpus 
Juris  Civilis  and  its  commentators  were  resorted  to,  and  to  eke  out 
any  deficiency  the  lawyers  who  came  from  France  or  Hispaniola  read 
Pothier,  D'Aguesseau,  Dumoulin,  etc.  El  Fuero  Juzco  was  a  compila- 
tion of  the  rules  and  regulations  made  for  Spain  by  its  national  coun- 
cils and  Gothic  kings  as  early  as  A.D.  693.  It  was  the  first  code  made 
by  the  Spanish  nation ;  it  consisted  of  twelve  volumes,  and  was  orig- 
inally published  in  Latin.  It  was  translated  into  Spanish  in  the 
thirteenth  century  by  order  of  Ferdinand  III.  El  Fuero  Viego  was 
published  in  the  year  992.  It  is  divided  into  five  books,  and  contains 
the  ancient  customs  and  usages  of  the  Spanish  nation. 

The  Partidas  "  is  the  most  perfect  system  of  Spanish  laws,  and 
may  be  advantageously  compared  with  any  code  published  in  the 


8  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

most  enlightened  ages  of  the  world."  It  is  in  imitation  of  the 
Eoman  Pandects,  and  may  be  considered  a  digest  of  the  laws  of 
Spain.  It  was  projected  by  Ferdinand  III.,  who  died  before  finishing 
it.  In  1256  Alphonso  the  Wise  nominated  four  Spanish  jurisconsults, 
to  whom  he  committed  the  execution  of  the  intended  work.  This 
they  accomplished  in  seven  years.  These  laws,  the  result  of  their 
labor,  they  divided  into  seven  parts,  and  from  them,  Siete  Partidas, 
the  work  takes  its  name.  Much  of  our  present  system  of  practice 
is  taken  from  the  Partidas. 

The  Eecopilacion  of  Castile  was  published  in  the  year  1567,  under 
the  authority  and  supervision  of  Philip  II.  From  that  time  to  1777 
many  new  editions  of  this  work  were  produced. 

The  Autos  Accor dados  were  edicts  and  orders  in  Council  sanctioned 
and  published  by  virtue  of  a  royal  decree.  It  consists  of  but  one 
volume.  The  scattered  laws  made  for  the  Spanish  colonies  at  differ- 
ent periods,  were  digested  by  Philip  IY.  in  the  same  form  as  the 
Recopilacion  of  Castile,  and  called  in  1661  the  Eecopilacion  de  las 
Indias* 

"  The  return  of  Louisiana  under  the  dominion  of  France,  and  its 
transfer  to  the  United  States,  did  not  for  a  moment  weaken  the  Spanish 
laws  in  that  province."  The  French,  during  the  continuation  of  their 
power  of  twenty  days,  made  no  change,  and  the  Government  of  the 
United  States  left  the  task  of  legislation  to  the  people  of  Louisiana  them- 
selves, giving  to  them  the  right  to  make  whatever  changes  they  might 
deem  necessary  in  the  existing  system  of  their  laws.  The  LTnited 
States  came  in  possession  of  Louisiana  in  December,  1803.  In  March, 
1804,  an  act  was  passed  dividing  the  country  into  two  territories — 
Orleans  and  Louisiana.  In  March,  1805,  another  act  was  passed  provid- 
ing for  the  government  of  Louisiana  and  Orleans.  The  present  Louisi- 
ana was  then  the  Orleans  Territory.  The  Supreme  Court  of  said  terri- 
tory was  composed  of  three  Judges,  one  of  whom  was  a  quorum.  It 
was  vested  with  original  and  appellate  jurisdiction  in  civil  and  criminal 
causes.  The  criminal  laws  of  Spain  were  repealed,  and  penal  statutes 
adopted,  the  definitions  and  intendments  of  which  were  left  to  the 
Common  law  of  England.  The  first  territorial  legislature  met  in  1806, 
and  one  of  its  acts  was  the  appointing  of  Messrs.  Brown  and  Lislet,  two 
members  of  the  bar,  a  committee  to  prepare  a  Digest  of  the  laws  then 
in  existence  in  the  territory.  Instead  of  complying  with  their  orders 
and  digesting  the  laws  in  existence,  these  gentlemen  made  a  code  based 
principally  on  the  Code  Napoleon.  This  was  adopted  by  the  Legislature, 
and  is  now  known  as  the  "  old  Civil  Code  of  1808."  This  code  did 
not  repeal  former  laws ;  "  the  old  Civil  Code  only  repealed  such  parts 

*  See  Preface  to  the  American  edition  of  the  Partidas, 


LOUISIANA  AND  HER  LAWS. 

of  the  Civil  law  as  were  contrary  to  or  incompatible  with  it."  It  did 
not  contain  many  and  important  provisions  of  the  Spanish  law  nor  any 
rules  of  judicial  proceedings.  It  was  therefore  decided  that  the 
Spanish  laws  were  to  be  considered  as  untouched  when  the  Digest  or 
Civil  Code  did  not  reach  them.  The  Legislature,  therefore,  in  1819 
ordered  the  publication  of  such  parts  of  the  Partidas  as  were  still  in 
force. 

As  our  old  and  new  codes  are  based  on  the  Code  Napoleon,  it  will 
not  be  improper  to  here  briefly  notice  that  work.  The  difficulties 
arising  from  the  various  and  complicated  Customs  of  France  attracted 
the  attention  of  early  kings  of  France  to  the  necessity  of  written 
laws.  St.  Louis,  Philip  Le  Bel,  and  John  had  all  vainly  sought  to 
effect  this  object.  Charles  YII.  approached  nearest  to  success.  A 
commencement  being  made,  the  Customs  were  ultimately  reduced  to 
writing  between  the  reigns  of  Louis  XII.  and  Henry  IV.  In  the 
course  of  the  sixteenth  century  this  work  was  improved  and  elabo- 
rated through  the  exertions  of  Dumoulin,  Chopin,  Bacquet,  Pithou 
and  others.  Domat  in  the  seventeenth,  and  Pothier  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  reduced  the  whole  system  to  comparative  utility.  To  La- 
moignon  and  D'Aguesseau,  as  also  to  Louis  XV.  and  XVI.,  we  are 
indebted  for  those  Ordinances  which  have  at  once  been  the  pride  of 
France  and  the  resort  of  all  nations.  Montesquieu  fanned  the  flame 
that  was  purifying  the  legal  atmosphere  of  France.  After  the  revo- 
lution, as  soon  as  tranquillity  was  restored,  the  French  nation  devoted 
itself  to  the  thorough  reformation  of  its  laws.  The  result — the  CODE 
NAPOLEOX — has  proved  the  wisdom  of  its  compilers  and  added  to  the 
happiness  of  the  people. 

The  commissioners  appointed  to  compile  the  code  consisted  of 
Franchet,  Portalis,  De  Premeneau  and  Malleville.  Thirty-six  laws, 
which  constituted  the  Civil  Code  actually  in  force,  having  been  de- 
creed, a  law  promulgated  the  31st  March,  1804,  declared  the  union  of 
all  the  Civil  laws  under  the  title  of  the  "  Civil  Code  of  the  French." 
This  title  was  changed  in  1807,  and  again  in  1816,  but  is  now  gen- 
erally known  as  the  Code  Napoleon.  The  code  has  been  several  times 
changed  since  its  promulgation ;  and  the  decisions  of  the  Court  of 
Cassation  reported  by  Dalloz  and  Sirey,  as  well  as  those  of  the  sove- 
reign courts,  have  interpreted,  applied,  extended  and  fixed  its  princi- 
ples. Much  assistance,  too,  is  derived  by  the  student  by  reference  to 
treatises  and  commentaries  on  the  subject,  such  as  those  of  Duranton 
and  Troplong.  This  code  is  the  basis  of  the  jurisprudence  of  Ger- 
many, Italy,  Poland,  Switzerland,  and  Belgium. 

In  1811  Congress  raised  the  Territory  of  Orleans  to  the  dignity  of 
a  State,  and  restored  to  it  the  name  of  Louisiana.  In  1812  the  Consti- 


10  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

tution  was  adopted,  and  in  1813  the  Supreme  Court  was  formed,  con- 
sisting of  three  Judges,  Hall,  Mathews,  and  Derbigny.  It  had  appellate 
jurisdiction  only,  and  in  civil  cases  only  where  the  amount  in  dispute 
exceeded  three  hundred  dollars. 

The  "  Old  Code  "  requiring  amendment,  a  committee,  consisting  of 
Messrs.  Livingston,  Derbigny,  and  Lislet,  was  appointed  to  revise  it. 
The  "  Old  Code,"  revised  and  remodelled,  and  called  the  "  Civil  Code 
of  Louisiana,"  went  into  operation  in  1825.  Its  last  article  repeals 
all  former  laws,  for  which  it  provided,  and  an  act  of  1828  abolished 
the  Roman,  French,  and  Spanish  laws  previously  in  existence,  and 
also  "  all  the  articles  contained  in  the  Old  Civil  Code  which  are  not 
reprinted  in  the  New  Civil  Code,  except  Chapter  III.,  Title  10."  The 
decision  reported  in  Martin's  Report,  N".  S.  vol.  6,  p.  90,  relating  to 
the  Old  Code,  is  of  course  annulled  by  this  subsequent  act  of  the 
Legislature  ;  and  the  Supreme  Court  has  decided  that  the  Legislature, 
in  abolishing  the  French  and  Spanish  laws  previously  in  existence, 
"  did  not  intend  to  abrogate  those  principles  of  law  which  had  been 
established  or  settled  by  the  decisions  of  courts  of  justice." 

In  1840  the  number  of  the  Judges  of  the  Supreme  Court  was 
increased  to  five. 

The  Code  of  Practice  was  enacted  on  the  12th  April,  1824,  and 
promulgated  2d  September,  1825.  It  repeals  all  former  rules  of  prac- 
tice, and  also  those  parts  of  the  Civil  Code  that  conflict  with  it. 

In  1845  our  present  Constitution  was  adopted,  changing  materially 
the  basis  of  our  laws,  and  causing  a  nearer  approximation  to  the 
principles  of  the  Common  law.  Though  our  people,  from  a  love  of 
novelty,  and  on  account  of  some  real  defects,  are  already  seeking  a 
change,  it  can  hardly  be  denied  that,  with  all  its  faults,  it  is  one  of 
the  best  Constitutions  to  be  found  in  the  Union.  It  changed  and 
greatly  simplified  the  judiciary  system,  creating  in  place  of  numer- 
ous courts  but  three  degrees  of  jurisdiction — the  inferior  courts,  or 
Justices  of  the  Peace;  the  District  Courts;  and  the  appellate  or 
Supreme  Court,  consisting  of  one  Chief  Justice  and  three  puisne 
Judges.* 

We  have  thus,  as  we  promised,  briefly  touched  upon  the  most 
important  points  in  the  legal  history  of  Louisiana.  It  will  be  found 
that  we  have  adopted  mainly  the  Civil  law.  With  regard  to  its 
merits,  in  concluding,  we  cannot  better  express  ourselves  than  by 
using  the  elegant  language  of  Chancellor  Kent.  "  The  whole  body 

*  [  The  Supreme  Court  at  present  consists  of  one  Chief  Justice  and  four  Associate 
or  puisne  Judges.  Hon.  Francis  T.  Nicholls  is  the  Chief  Justice,  and  Hons.  Lynn  B. 
Watkins,  Samuel  D.  McBnery,  Joseph  A.  Breaux,  and  Henry  C.  Miller  are  the  puisne 
Judges.] 


LOUISIANA   AND   HER  LAWS.  11 

of  the  Civil  law  will  excite  never-failing  curiosity,  and  receive  the 
homage  of  scholars,  as  a  singular  monument  of  wisdom.  It  fills  such 
a  large  space  in  the  eye  of  human  reason  ;  it  regulates  so  many  inter- 
ests of  man  as  a  social,  civilized  being  ;  it  embodies  so  much  thought, 
reflection,  experience,  and  labor ;  it  leads  us  so  far  into  the  recesses  of 
antiquity  ;  and  it  has  stood  so  long  '  against  the  waves  and  weathers 
of  time,'  that  it  is  impossible,  while  engaged  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  system,  not  to  be  struck  with  some  portion  of  the  awe  and  ven- 
eration which  are  felt  in  the  midst  of  the  solitudes  of  a  majestic 
ruin." 


THE    TEEE    OF    THE    DEAD. 

[From  History  of  Louisiana  (1866).] 
BY  CHARLES    GAYAKKE. 

[CHARLES  ETIENNE  ARTHUR  GAYARR^,  or  Charles  Gayarre,  as  he  usually  signs  his 
name,  was  born  in  New  Orleans,  January  9,  1805.  His  family  is  identified  with  the 
history  of  Louisiana  from  its  early  colonial  period.  In  youth,  Gayarre  studied  at  the 
College  of  Orleans.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  he  laid  before  the  Legislature  of  Louisiana  a 
pamphlet  in  which  he  opposed  some  provisions  of  a  criminal  code  that  had  been  prepared 
by  Edward  Livingston  at  the  request  of  the  State.  In  1826  he  went  to  Philadelphia, 
and  for  two  years  read  law  under  William  Rawle,  the  author  of  a  work  on  the  Constitution 
of  the  United  States.  Having  been  admitted  to  the  Pennsylvania  bar,  he  returned  to 
Louisiana,  where,  in  due  season,  he  received  a  license  to  practise  law.  In  1830  he  was 
elected  one  of  the  Representatives  of  New  Orleans  in  the  State  Legislature.  In  1832 
Governor  Roman  appointed  him  Presiding  Judge  of  the  City  Court  of  New  Orleans.  In 
1835  he  was  elected  to  the  United  States  Senate  ;  but  some  months  before  the  time  when 
he  was  to  take  his  seat  in  that  body,  his  health  became  so  undermined  that  he  decided 
to  visit  Europe,  in  the  hope  of  recovery.  On  his  arrival  in  Paris,  however,  his  physicians 
having  declared  that  an  early  return  to  his  native  land  would  endanger  his  life,  he 
resigned  his  seat  in  the  United  States  Senate,  and  remained  in  Europe  eight  years, 
occupying  his  time  in  study  and  in  making  historical  investigations.  In  1844.  shortly 
after  his  return  to  Louisiana,  he  was  elected  to  the  State  Legislature,  and  two  years  later 
was  reelccted  to  that  body;  but  on  the  very  day  of  its  meeting,  he  accepted,  instead, 
the  appointment  of  Secretary  of  St<ate  under  Governor  Johnson's  administration.  When 
the  Know-Nothing  Party  was  organized  in  Louisiana,  Gayarre  was  induced,  after  much 
hesitation,  to  join  it  ;  but  his  connection  with  it  terminated  when  he  learned  that  one  of 
its  canons  was  religious  intolerance.  During  the  Civil  War,  he  was  in  sympathy  with 
the  Confederates.  Since  the  war  he  was  for  some  time  reporter  of  the  Supreme  Court 
of  his  State.  He  writes  French  and  English  with  equal  skill.  His  History  of 
Louisiana,  the  standard  work  on  the  subject,  has  won  for  him  the  title,  "The  Henri 
Martin  of  Louisiana."  His  style  is  earnest,  dignified,  and  florid  ;  and  in  figures  of 
antitheses,  it  compares  favorably  with  that  of  the  greatest  historians.  He  is  the  author 
of  L'Histoire  de  la  Louisiana  (1847)  ;  Romance  of  the  History  of  Louisiana  (1848)  ; 
Louisiana :  its  Colonial  History  and  Romance  (1851)  ;  Louisiana :  its  History  as  a 
French  Colony  (1852)  ;  and  History  of  the  Spanish  Domination  in  Louisiana  (1854). 
These  works  were  revised  and  included  in  three  volumes  in  1866  as  the  History  of 
Louisiana,  which,  in  1879,  was  reissued  in  four  volumes,  Among  his  other  works,  are 
Philip  II.  of  Spain  (1866),  Fernando  de  Lemos,  a 'novel  (1872),  with  a  sequel,  Aubert 
Dubayet  (1882),  The  School  for  Politics,  a  Drama,  and  Dr.  Bluff,  a  Comedy  (1854).] 

IN  a  lot  situated  at  the  corner  of  Orleans  and  Dauphine  Streets,  in 
the  city  of  New  Orleans,  there  is  a  tree  which  nobody  looks  at  without 
curiosity  and  without  wondering  how  it  came  there.  For  a  long  time 
it  was  the  only  one  of  its  kind  known  in  the  state,  and  from  its 
isolated  position  it  has  always  been  cursed  with  sterility.  It  reminds 


THE  TREE  OF  THE  DEAD.  13 

one  of  the  warm  climes  of  Africa  or  Asia,  and  wears  the  aspect  of  a 
stranger  of  distinction  driven  from  his  native  country.  Indeed,  with 
its  sharp  and  thin  foliage,  sighing  mournfully  under  the  blast  of  one 
of  our  November  northern  winds,  it  looks  as  sorrowful  as  an  exile. 
Its  enormous  trunk  is  nothing  but  an  agglomeration  of  knots  and 
bumps,  which  each  passing  year  seems  to  have  deposited  there  as  a 
mark  of  age,  and  as  a  protection  against  the  blows  of  time  and  of  the 
world.  Inquire  for  its  origin,  and  every  one  will  tell  you  that  it  has 
stood  there  from  time  immemorial.  A  sort  of  vague  but  impressive 
mystery  is  attached  to  it,  and  it  is  as  superstitiously  respected  as  one 
of  the  old  oaks  of  Dodona.  Bold  would  be  the  axe  that  should  strike 
the  first  blow  at  that  foreign  patriarch  ;  and  if  it  were  prostrated  to 
the  ground  by  a  profane  hand,  what  native  of  the  city  would  not 
mourn  over  its  fall,  and  brand  the  act  as  an  unnatural  and  criminal 
deed  ?  So,  long  live  the  date-tree  of  Orleans  Street — that  time-honored 
descendant  of  Asiatic  ancestors ! 

In  the  beginning  of  1727,  a  French  vessel  of  war  landed  at  New 
Orleans  a  man  of  haughty  mien,  who  wore  the  Turkish  dress,  and 
whose  whole  attendance  was  a  single  servant.  He  was  received  by  the 
governor  with  the  highest  distinction,  and  was  conducted  by  him  to  a 
small  but  comfortable  house  with  a  pretty  garden,  then  existing  at  the 
corner  of  Orleans  and  Dauphine  Streets,  and  which,  from  the  circum- 
stance of  its  being  so  distant  from  other  dwellings,  might  have  been 
called  a  rural  retreat,  although  situated  in  the  limits  of  the  city. 
There  the  stranger,  who  was  understood  to  be  a  prisoner  of  state,  lived 
in  the  greatest  seclusion ;  and  although  neither  he  nor  his  attendant 
could  be  guilty  of  indiscretion,  because  none  understood  their  language, 
and  although  Governor  Perier  severely  rebuked  the  slightest  inquiry, 
yet  it  seemed  to  be  the  settled  conviction  in  Louisiana,  that  the  mys- 
terious stranger  was  a  brother  of  the  Sultan,  or  some  great  personage 
of  the  Ottoman  Empire,  who  had  fled  from  the  anger  of  the  vice- 
regent  of  Mohammed,  and  who  had  taken  refuge  in  France.  The  Sultan 
had  peremptorily  demanded  the  fugitive,  and  the  French  government 
thinking  it  derogatory  to  its  dignity  to  comply  with  that  request,  but 
at  the  same  time  not  wishing  to  expose  its  friendly  relations  with  the 
Moslem  monarch,  and  perhaps  desiring,  for  political  purposes,  to  keep 
in  hostage  the  important  guest  it  had  in  its  hands,  had  recourse  to  the 
expedient  of  answering  that  he  had  fled  to  Louisiana,  which  was  so 
distant  a  country  that  it  might  be  looked  upon  as  the  grave,  where,  as 
it  was  suggested,  the  fugitive  might  be  suffered  to  wait  in  peace  for 
actual  death,  without  danger  or  offence  to  the  Sultan.  Whether  this 
story  be  true  or  not  is  now  a  matter  of  so  little  consequence  that  it 
Avould  not  repay  the  trouble  of  a  strict  historical  investigation. 


14  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

The  year  1727  was  drawing  to  its  close,  when  on  a  dark,  stormy 
night  the  howling  and  barking  of  the  numerous  dogs  in  the  streets  of 
New  Orleans  Avere  observed  to  be  fiercer  than  usual,  and  some  of  that 
class  of  individuals  who  pretend  to  know  everything,  declared  that,  by 
the  vivid  flashes  of  the  lightning,  they  had  seen,  swiftly  and  stealthily 
gliding  toward  the  residence  of  the  unknown,  a  body  of  men  who  wore 
the  scowling  appearance  of  malefactors  and  ministers  of  blood.  There 
afterward  came  also  a  report  that  a  piratical-looking  Turkish  vessel 
had  been  hovering  a  few  days  previous  in  the  bay  of  Barataria.  Be  it 
as  it  may,  on  the  next  morning  the  house  of  the  stranger  was  deserted. 
There  were  no  traces  of  mortal  struggle  to  be  seen ;  but  in  the  garden 
the  earth  had  been  dug,  and  there  was  the  unmistakable  indication  of 
a  recent  grave.  Soon,  however,  all  doubts  were  removed  by  the  find- 
ing of  an  inscription  in  Arabic  characters,  engraved  on  a  marble  tablet, 
which  was  subsequently  sent  to  France.  It  ran  thus  :  "  The  justice  of 
Heaven  is  satisfied,  and  the  date-tree  shall  grow  on  the  traitor's  tomb. 
The  sublime  Emperor  of  the  faithful,  the  supporter  of  the  faith,  the 
omnipotent  master  and  Sultan  of  the  world,  has  redeemed  his  vow. 
God  is  great,  and  Mohammed  is  his  prophet.  Allah  !  "  Some  time 
after  this  event,. a  foreign-looking  tree  was  seen  to  peep  out  of  the  spot 
where  a  corpse  must  have  been  deposited  in  that  stormy  night,  when 
the  rage  of  the  elements  yielded  to  the  pitiless  fury  of  man,  and  it 
thus  explained  in  some  degree  this  part  of  the  inscription,  "  the  date- 
tree  shall  grow  on  the  traitor's  grave." 

Who  was  he,  or  what  had  he  done,  who  had  provoked  such  relent- 
less and  far-seeking  revenge  ?  Ask  Nemesis,  or — at  that  hour  when 
evil  spirits  are  allowed  to  roam  over  the  earth,  and  magical  invoca- 
tions are  made — go  and  interrogate  the  tree  of  the  dead. 


A  SKETCH  OF  THE  HISTOKY  OF  ACADIA,  FROM  THE 
SETTLEMENT  OF  THE  COLONY  TO  THE  DISPER- 
SION OF  THE  INHABITANTS.* 

BY    ALCEE    FORTIER. 

[ALCEE  FORTIER  was  born  in  St.  James  Parish,  La.,  June  5,  1856.  In  youth  he 
studied  for  some  time  at  the  University  of  Virginia.  He  is,  at  this  writing,  professor 
of  French  in  Tulane  University — a  position  which  he  has  held  since  1879,  when  that  insti- 
tution was  still  known  as  the  University  of  Louisiana.  He  is  the  president  of  ''L'- 
Athenee  Louisianais,"  and  of  the  American  Folk-Lore  Society.  With  great  capacity  for 
work,  his  scholarship  embraces  protracted  studies  in  philology  and  history.  Proficient  in 
French  and  English,  he  has  contributed  to  the  literature  of  both  languages.  His  French 
works  include  Le  Chateau  de  Chambord  (1884)  ;  Le  Vieux  Francais  et  la  Litterature  du 
UoyenAge  (1885);  Gabriel  d'Ennerich,  an  historical  novelette  (1886);  Les  Conquetesdes 
Normands  (1889)  ;  Sept  Grands  Auteurs  du  XIXe  Siecle  (1889)  ;  and  Histoire  de  la 
Litterature  Francaise  (1893).  His  English  works  include  Bits  of  Louisiana  Folk-Lore 
(1888)  ;  annotated  editions  of  De  Vigny's  Le  Cachet  Rouge  (1890)  and  of  Cornet  He's 
Pdyeucte  (1891)  ;  and  Louisiana  Studies  (1894).] 

EVEN  before  the  time  of  John  Cabot,  the  Normans,  the  Bretons, 
and  the  Basques  are  said  to  have  known  Newfoundland ;  and  the  first 
description  of  the  shores  of  our  United  States  was  made  in  1524  to  a 
French  king,  Francis  the  First,  by  the  Florentine  Yerrazano.  Ten 
years  later  we  see  the  bold  son  of  St.  Malo  sailing  on  the  broad  St. 
LaAvrence,  which  was  to  be  the  scene  of  so  many  conflicts  for  the  pos- 
session of  its  rugged  shores.  In  1535  Jacques  Cartier  saw  the  future 
site  of  Quebec  and  Montreal,  and  became  acquainted  with  the  Indian 
tribes,  the  future  allies  of  the  French  in  their  contest  with  the  English. 
New  France  was  discovered,  but  who  was  to  establish  the  first  settle- 
ment in  the  name  of  the  Most  Christian  King  ?  In  vain  did  Jean 
Francois  de  la  Roque,  Sieur  de  Roberval,  in  1542,  brave  the  terrors  of 
the  Isle  of  Demons  and  attempt  to  plant  a  colony  in  New  France. 
Of  his  ill-fated  expedition  nothing  remained  but  the  name  of  He  de  la 
Demoiselle,  where  the  stern  Roberval  abandoned  to  the  demons  his 
niece  Marguerite  to  punish  her  for  an  unhallowed  love.  The  Marquis 
de  la  Roche  with  his  shipload  of  convicts  was  not  more  successful  in 
1598  than  Roberval  half  a  century  before.  Champlain  and  De  Monts 

*  For  this  sketch  of  the  history  of  Acadia  I  have  taken  as  my  chief  guide  Park- 
man's  admirable  Narratives,  although  I  do  not  always  share  his  opinions  and  arrive 
at  the  same  conclusions.  For  a  complete  bibliography  of  the  subject  see  Critical  and 
Narrative  History  of  America,  edited  by  Justin  Winsor. 


1C  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

were  to  be  the  fathers  of  Canada  and  Acadia,  The  former  had  been 
sent  on  an  expedition  to  the  new  world  by  the  Commander  de  Chastes, 
and  on  his  return  to  France  associated  his  fortunes  with  those  of  De 
Monts,  who  had  just  been  made  Lieutenant-General  of  Acadia. 

"  The  word  Acadia,"  says  Parkman,  "  is  said  to  be  derived  from 
the  Indian  Aquoddianke,  or  Aquoddie,  meaning  the  fish  called  a  pol- 
lock. The  Bay  of  Passamaquoddy,  '  great  pollock  water,'  derives  its 
name  from  the  same  origin." 

The  region  designated  by  this  name  comprised  a  large  territory, 
Nova  Scotia,  New  Brunswick,  and  Maine,  but  was  later  considered  to 
embrace  the  peninsula  of  Nova  Scotia  only.  The  climate  was  much 
milder  than  that  of  Canada,  and  all  travellers  describe  the  country  as 
beautiful.  The  tide  in  the  Bay  of  Fundy  is  grand,  and  there  are  excel- 
lent ports  along  the  coast.  We  need  not  then  be  astonished  that 
Poutrincourt,  one  of  De  Monts's  companions,  was  so  pleased  with  the 
Port  Royal  that  he  obtained  a  grant  from  De  Monts,  and  in  1605 
established  a  colony  which,  after  many  vicissitudes,  was  destined  to 
be  celebrated  in  history  and  in  romance.  De  Monts  himself,  with  Pou- 
trincourt, Champlain,  and  Pontgrave,  had  in  1604  founded  a  settle- 
ment at  St.  Croix  ;  but  the  place  was  badly  chosen,  and  after  a  winter 
of  misery  the  colony  was  transferred  to  Port  Koyal.  De  Monts  was  a 
Calvinist,  and  he  had  taken  with  him  to  the  new  world  both  Catholic 
priests  and  Protestant  ministers,  who,  it  can  well  be  imagined,  were 
not  on  very  good  terms.  Such  were  their  quarrels  that  the  sailors 
buried  in  the  same  grave  a  priest  and  a  minister,  "  to  see  if  they  would 
lie  peaceably  together."  De  Monts  returned  to  France  to  protect  his 
fur-trade  monopoly,  and  left  Pontgrave  in  command  at  Port  Royal. 
He  was  absent  many  months,  and  Pontgrave  had  abandoned  the 
colony,  leaving  only  two  men  in  charge,  when  Poutrincourt  arrived 
with  supplies.  Pontgrave  returned,  and  another  attempt  was  made  to 
establish  Port  Koyal  on  a  solid  foundation.  The  poet  Lescarbot  gives 
an  interesting  account  of  the  winter  passed,  without  very  great  suffer- 
ings, and  already  the  colonists  were  beginning  to  hope,  when  in  the 
summer  of  1607  news  was  received  that  De  Monts's  charter  had  been 
rescinded  and  that  the  colony  must  be  abandoned.  The  settlers 
departed  with  heavy  hearts,  leaving  the  Indians  full  of  sorrow.  The 
French  had  been  humane  and  friendly  to  the  savages. 

The  settlement  in  Acadia  had  apparently  failed,  but  Poutrincourt 
was  not  discouraged.  He  obtained  from  the  King  a  confirmation  of 
his  grant,  formed  a  partnership  with  the  Sieur  Robin,  and  in  1610 
returned  to  Port  Royal  with  other  settlers.  Unhappily,  however,  the 
year  1610  was  as  fatal  to  Acadia  as  to  France :  the  great  King,  Henry 
IV.,  was  murdered,  and  soon  afterward  Madame  la  Marquise  de 


A  SKETCH  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  AC  ADI  A.  17 

Guercheville  obtained  from  Marie  de  Medicis  a  grant  of  all  Acadia. 
The  pious  Marquise  was  associated  with  the  Jesuits  and  wished  to 
convert  the  Indians.  Her  agents  and  priests,  especially  the  able  and 
energetic  Father  Biard,  did  not  agree  with  Poutrincourt  and  his  son 
Biencourt,  and  discord  was  supreme  in  the  colony,  when  in  1613  a 
heavy  blow  fell  on  the  rising  settlement.  Samuel  Argall,  already 
noted  for  having  abducted  Pocahontas,  heard  of  French  Port  Royal, 
captured  a  part  of  the  inhabitants  and  dispersed  the  others.  Father 
Biard  and  Madame  de  Guercheville's  commander,  Saussaye,  finally 
reached  France,  and  the  good  lady's  plans  for  saving  the  souls  of  the 
Indians  were  frustrated. 

Biencourt  had  escaped  during  the  destruction  of  Port  Royal,  and 
was  roaming  in  the  woods  with  a  few  followers  when  Poutrincourt 
arrived  with  supplies.  At  the  sight  of  his  son's  misery,  the  Baron  lost 
all  hope  for  his  colony  and  returned  to  France,  where  in  1615  he  died 
a  soldier's  death.  Biencourt,  however,  rebuilt  Port  Royal  and  kept 
the  colony  alive.  Little  progress  was  made,  as  in  1686  the  whole 
population  of  Acadia  was  only  nine  hundred  and  fifteen.  There  had 
been  troublous  times  in  the  colony  from  1613  to  1686,  and  several 
masters  had  ruled  the  country.  In  1621  Sir  William  Alexander 
obtained  from  James  I.  a  grant  of  New  Scotland,  and  tried  to  establish 
baronetcies  in  Acadia.  His  plans  were  but  short-lived,  as  the  English 
surrendered  the  province  to  the  French  in  1632  by  the  treaty  of  St. 
Germain.  Louis  XIII.  appointed  M.  de  Razilly  Governor  of  Acadia, 
and  the  latter  named  as  his  lieutenants  Charles  de  la  Tour  and  the 
Sieur  d'Aulnay.  Here  comes  a  romantic  episode.  The  two  lieutenants, 
as  in  duty  bound,  quarrelled  and  made  war  upon  each  other.  La  Tour 
went  to  Boston  to  obtain  aid  against  his  rival,  and  in  his  absence 
D'Aulnay  attacked  his  fort.  The  place  was  most  bravely  defended  by 
Madame  de  la  Tour,  but  she  was  defeated  and  died  of  mortification. 
Her  husband  struggled  for  some  time  with  little  success  against 
D'Aulnay ;  but  the  latter  died,  and  La  Tour  settled  all  difficulties  by 
marrying  his  rival's  widow — a  queer  but  not  unwise  proceeding. 

Acadia  had  become  once  more  peaceful,  in  1653,  by  La  Tour's 
marriage,  when  one  year  later  the  English  took  possession  of  the 
colony.  Cromwell  was  ruling  England  at  that  time,  and  he  under- 
stood how  important  it  was  for  the  English  settlements  on  the  Atlan- 
tic that  Acadia  should  not  belong  to  the  French.  By  his  orders  Major 
Robert  Sedgwick,  of  Charlestown,  and  Captain  John  Leverett,  of 
Boston,  subjugated  Acadia,  which  was  kept  by  the  English  until  1668, 
when,  by  the  treaty  of  Breda,  it  was  restored  to  the  French. 

For  twenty-two  years  the  colony  enjoyed  peace  under  French  rule, 
and  the  inhabitants  led  comparatively  quiet  lives,  enlivened  by  some 


18  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

adventures  with  the  Indians  and  the  English.  A  very  romantic  char- 
acter is  the  Baron  de  St.  Castin,  the  son-in-law  of  Matakando,  the  most 
powerful  Indian  chief  of  that  region.  In  the  company  of  his  Indian 
relatives  the  bold  Baron  waged  incessant  war  against  the  English. 

In  1690  Frontenac  was  for  a  second  time  governor  of  New  France, 
and  by  his  energy  and  courage  he  saved  the  colony  from  ruin.  He 
repulsed  the  attacks  of  Phips  against  Quebec,  and  of  Schuyler  against 
Montreal,  carried  war  into  the  English  possessions,  and  nearly  broke 
the  power  of  the  Iroquois.  He  was  not,  however,  able  to  save  Acadia 
from  the  enemy.  This  settlement  was  too  remote  from  Quebec  to  be 
effectually  protected,  and  fell  again  into  the  hands  of  the  English.  In 
1690  AYilliam  Phips  sailed  from  Boston  with  a  small  fleet  and  reduced 
the  principal  Acadian  settlements.  He  obtained  great  booty  and  was 
well  received  on  his  return  to  Massachusetts,  although  his  expedition 
seems  to  us  more  like  a  piratical  raid  than  legitimate  Avarfare. 

Acadia  was  again  restored  to  the  French  in  1697  by  the  treaty 
of  Ryswick,  and  when  Frontenac  died,  in  1698,  Louis  XI Y.  was  still 
master  of  all  New  France.  Frontenac  is  a  most  interesting  and 
heroic  character ;  he  was  proud  and  stern,  but  at  the  same  time  most 
brave,  skilful,  and  shrewd.  His  name  and  that  of  Montcalm  are  the 
greatest  in  the  history  of  New  France. 

Nearly  one  hundred  years  had  passed  since  De  Monts  had  landed 
in  Acadia,  and  the  unfortunate  colony  had  been  thrown  about  like  a 
shuttlecock,  from  the  French  to  the  English,  and  from  the  English  to 
the  French.  In  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century  three  expe- 
ditions sailed  from  Boston  to  conquer  Acadia.  The  first  two  were 
not  successful ;  but  the  third,  commanded  by  Governor  Nicholson  and 
composed  of  thirty-six  vessels,  took  Port  Royal  and  subdued  the 
country.  The  whole  number  of  inhabitants  in  1710  was  twenty-five 
hundred.  Three  years  later,  by  the  treaty  of  Utrecht,  Acadia  was 
formally  ceded  to  England ;  and  France,  in  order  to  compensate  for 
the  loss  of  Port  Royal,  called  by  the  English  Annapolis,  had  to  build 
on  Cape  Breton  the  celebrated  fortress  of  Louisbourg.  The  Acadians 
had  fought  bravely  for  their  independence,  and  it  was  only  after  a 
gallant  resistance  that  Subercase  had  surrendered  Port  Eoyal.  The 
English  imposed  their  domination  upon  Acadia  by  force,  and  it  is  not 
surprising  that  the  inhabitants  refused  to  become  Englishmen  and  did 
all  in  their  power  to  remain  faithful  to  their  king,  their  religion,  and 
their  language. 

L'abbe  Casgrain  in  his  charming  book,  Un  Pelerinage  au  Pays 
& Evangeline,  has  given  a  beautiful  description  of  Acadia,  and  calls 
attention  to  the  poetical  and  expressive  names  of  some  parts  of  the 
country — Beaubassin,  Beausejour,  le  Port  Eoyal,  la  Grand-Pree, 


A  SKETCH  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  AC  ADI  A.  19 

names  characteristic  of  the  simple  and  peaceful  disposition  of  a  people 
who,  if  left  to  themselves,  would  have  been  satisfied  with  praying  to 
their  God  and  attending  to  their  numerous  children.  In  1885  1'abbe 
Casgrain  visited  all  Acadia,  and  manifests  his  delight  on  seeing  a  land 
of  quiet  and  happiness,  a  land  of  which  a  great  part  has  again  become 
French.  What  a  contrast  between  the  Acadia  of  our  days  and  that 
of  1755 !  The  descendants  of  the  exiles  have  prospered  once  more  in 
the  land  of  their  ancestors,  but  their  present  state  of  contentment 
does  not  make  us  forget  the  misery  of  the  past.  The  field  that  was 
once  the  scene  of  a  bloody  battle  may  now  be  covered  with  green  turf 
and  variegated  flowers;  but  still  there. will  rise  before  us  the  faces  of 
the  dying,  and  we  shall  hear  the  thunder  of  the  cannon.  La  Grand- 
Free  and  Beaubassin  may  present  an  attractive  sight,  but  the  names 
recall  to  our  minds  the  scene  of  a  dreadful  tragedy. 

By  the  treaty  of  Utrecht  it  had  been  stipulated  that  the  Acadians 
might  withdraw  to  the  French  possessions  if  they  chose.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  the  English  governors  did  all  in  their  power  to  prevent 
the  emigration  to  Cape  Breton  or  to  Canada,  and  as  they  were  not 
harsh,  as  a  rule,  to  the  inhabitants,  the  latter  preferred  to  remain  in 
the  country  of  their  ancestors.  They  refused,  however,  for  a  long 
time  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  English  sovereign,  and 
when  a  part  of  the  men  took  the  oath,  it  was  with  the  tacit  if  not 
expressed  understanding  that  they  would  never  be  compelled  to  bear 
arms  against  the  French.  That  the  priests  in  Acadia,  and  even  the 
Governor  of  Canada,  tried  to  keep  the  inhabitants  faithful  to  the 
French  King,  in  spite  of  their  being  English  subjects,  there  is  no 
reasonable  doubt.  We  can  hardly  blame  this  feeling,  if  we  consider 
what  great  rivalry  there  was  at  the  time  between  the  English  and 
the  French  in  America,  and  also  the  spirit  of  intolerance  then  every- 
where prevalent.  The  priests  must  have  considered  it  a  duty  on 
their  part  to  try  to  harm  the  English  heretics,  and  although  wTe  may 
not  approve  the  acts  of  some  of  them,  nor  the  duplicity  of  some  of 
the  French  agents,  we  do  not  find  in  their  conduct  any  excuse  for 
the  cruelty  of  the  English. 

Seeing  how  disaffected  the  Acadians  were  with  their  new  masters, 
the  Marquis  of  Cornwallis,  in  1749,  laid  the  foundations  of  Halifax  as 
a  protection  against  Louisbourg.  A  number  of  the  inhabitants  had 
escaped  from  the  colony  at  the  instigation  of  1'abbe  le  Loutre,  says 
Parkman,  and  had  gone  to  the  adjoining  French  settlements.  Their 
lot  was  a  sad  one,  as  the  French  were  not  able  to  provide  for  them, 
and  the  English  would  only  receive  them  as  English  subjects.  It  is 
not  astonishing  that  they  should  make  a  kind  of  guerilla  war  with  their 
Indian  allies  against  the  English,  and  that  they  should  attempt  to 


20  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

excite  their  countrymen  against  the  conquerors.  It  must  be  admitted 
that  the  English  were  in  great  peril  in  the  midst  of  men  openly  or 
secretly  hostile  to  them,  but  no  necessity  of  war  can  justify  the  meas- 
ures taken  to  rid  English  Nova  Scotia  of  her  French  Acadians.  Let 
us  now  relate  briefly  the  terrible  event  which  has  made  the  word 
Acadia  sadly  celebrated. 

In  1755  the  Governor  of  Acadia  wras  Charles  Lawrence,  a  name 
destined  to  obtain  an  unenviable  notoriety.  He  resolved  to  expel  the 
French  from  the  posts  which  they  still  held  in  the  colony.  A  force 
of  eighteen  hundred  men,  commanded  by  Colonel  Monckton,  started 
from  New  England  and  captured  Fort  Beausejour,  which  the  cowardly 
and  vile  commandant,  Vergor,  surrendered  at  the  first  attack.  On 
the  Plains  of  Abraham  he  was  also  to  be  the  first  to  yield  to  Wolfe, 
and  to  cause  the  defeat  and  death  of  the  brave  Montcalm,  the  fall  of 
Quebec,  and  the  loss  of  Canada. 

After  the  capture  of  Beausejour,  Fort  Gaspereau  surrendered  also, 
and  there  was  no  longer  any  obstacle  to  prevent  Lawrence  from 
accomplishing  a  design  which  he  must  have  been  cherishing  for  some 
time.  The  Governor  determined  to  remove  from  the  province  all  the 
French  Acadians.  He  required  from  the  inhabitants  an  oath  of 
unqualified  allegiance,  and  on  their  refusal  he  resolved  to  proceed  to 
extreme  measures.  Parkman  says  that  "  the  Acadians,  though  calling 
themselves  neutrals,  were  an  enemy  encamped  in  the  heart  of  the 
province,"  and  adds :  "  These  are  the  reasons  which  explain  and 
palliate  a  measure  too  harsh  and  indiscriminate  to  be  wholly  justified." 

It  is  impossible  to  justify  the  measure  in  any  way.  Fear  of  an 
enemy  does  not  justify  his  murder ;  and  the  expulsion  of  the  Acadi- 
ans was  the  cause  of  untold  misery,  both  physical  and  moral,  and  of 
the  death  of  a  number  of  men,  women,  and  children.  If  the  harsh 
removal  of  the  Acadians  is  justifiable,  so  is  Bonaparte's  massacre  of 
the  prisoners  of  Jaffa.  He  could  not  provide  for  them  as  prisoners, 
and  if  he  released  them  they  would  immediately  attack  him  again. 

Governor  Lawrence  was  so  much  the  more  inexcusable,  because 
the  only  Acadians  that  gave  him  any  cause  for  anxiety  were  those 
of  Beausejour,  and  they  had  been  defeated.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
Basin  of  Mines  and  of  Annapolis  were  peaceful,  prosperous,  and  con- 
tented ;  and  although  they  might  have  sided  with  the  French  in  an 
invasion  of  the  province,  they  never  would  have  thought  of  revolting 
against  the  English.  They  were  an  ignorant  and  simple  people,  but 
laborious,  chaste,  and  religious.  Their  chief  defect  seems  to  have  been 
an  inordinate  love  for  litigation,  a  trait  which  they  inherited  from 
their  Norman  ancestors. 

Lawrence  took  away  the  guns  of  many  of  the  inhabitants  by  an 


A   SKETCH  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  AC  ADI  A.  21 

unworthy  stratagem,  and  then  he  ordered  the  ruthless  work  to  be 
done.  Monckton  seized  the  men  of  Beausejour ;  and  Winslow,  Hand- 
field,  and  Murray  did  the  same  at  la  Grand-Free,  at  Annapolis,  and  at 
Fort  Edward.  Let  us  picture  the  scene  at  la  Grand-Free. 

Winslow  issued  a  proclamation  calling  upon  all  the  men  to  meet 
him  at  the  village  church  on  Sunday.  There  he  was  at  the  appointed 
hour  with  his  two  hundred  and  ninety  men,  fully  armed,  to  meet  the 
intended  victims.  Four  hundred  and  eighteen  men  answered  the  call 
and  assembled  in  the  church.  What  was  their  consternation  on  hear- 
ing that  they  were  prisoners,  that  all  their  property  was  confiscated, 
and  that  they  were  to  be  torn  from  their  homes  with  their  families ! 
No  resistance  was  possible,  as  the  men  were  unarmed.  They  were  put 
for  safe  keeping  on  board  four  ships,  and  on  the  8th  of  October  the 
men,  women,  and  children  were  embarked.  This  was  le  grand  derange- 
ment of  which  their  descendants,  says  1'abbe  Casgrain,  speak  to  this 
day.  Winslow  completed  his  work  in  December  and  shipped  twenty- 
five  hundred  and  ten  persons.  Murray,  Monckton,  and  Handfield 
were  equally  successful,  and  more  than  six  thousand  persons  were 
violently  expelled  from  the  colony.  A  few  managed  to  escape, 
although  they  were  tracked  like  wild  beasts.  In  order  to  compel 
them  to  surrender,  the  dwellings  and  even  the  churches  were  burnt 
and  the  crops  were  destroyed.  The  fugitives  suffered  frightfully,  and 
many  women  and  children  died  of  misery.  In  this  scene  of  persecu- 
tion we  are  glad  to  see  the  brave  officer  Boishebert  defeat  a  party  of 
English  who  were  burning  a  church  at  Peticodiac.  Unhappily,  as 
already  stated,  no  resistance  could  be  made,  and  the  unfortunates  were 
huddled  together  like  sheep  on  board  the  transports,  to  be  scattered 
about  all  along  the  Atlantic  coast  among  a  hostile  people,  speaking 
a  language  unknown  to  them,  and  having  a  creed  different  from  their 
own. 

Who  can  imagine  the  feelings  of  these  men  and  women  when  the 
ships  started  on  the  fatal  journey,  and  they  threw  a  last  glance  at 
their  once  beautiful  country,  now  made  "  desolate  and  bare  "  !  How 
many  ties  of  kindred  and  of  love  were  rudely  torn  asunder !  The 
families  were  not  always  on  the  same  ship,  and  the  father  and  mother 
were  separated  from  their  children,  and  many  Evangelines  never  met 
their  Gabriels.  The  order  of  expulsion  was  harsh  and  cruel,  and  it  was 
executed  with  little  regard  for  the  most  sacred  feelings  of  the  human 
heart. 

We  shall  not  follow  the  Acadians  in  their  wanderings.  Let  us 
only  state  that  their  lot  in  the  English  colonies  was  generally  a  hard 
one.  Yery  few  remained  where  they  had  been  transported.  Many 
returned  to  their  country  after  incredible  sufferings,  to  be  again 


22  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

expelled  in  17f>2 ;  some  went  to  France,  where  they  formed  a  settle- 
ment at  Belle  Isle ;  some  went  to  the  Antilles,  and  some  at  last  found 
a  true  home  in  hospitable  Louisiana,*  At  the  peace  of  1763,  a  number 
of  Acadians  returned  to  Nova  Scotia ;  and  their  descendants,  together 
with  those  of  the  inhabitants  who  had  escaped  from  the  persecution, 
number  now,  according  to  1'abbe  Casgrain,  more  than  one  hundred 
and  thirty  thousand  souls.  This  fecundity  is  wonderful,  and  if  we 
consider  the  tenacity  of  those  people,  their  attachment  to  their  fami- 
lies, to  their  country,  to  their  religion,  we  may  indeed  say  with  the 
warm-hearted  Canadian  abbe,  "  The  Acadians  are  as  astonishing  for 
their  virtues  as  for  their  misfortunes." 

*  [  "  Between  the  1st  of  January  and  the  13th  of  May,  1765,  about  six  hundred  and 
fifty  Acadians  had  arrived  at  New  Orleans,  and  from  that  town  had  been  sent  to  form 
settlements  in  Attakapas  and  Opelousas  under  the  command  of  Andry." — Gayarre's 
History  of  Louisiana,  (1879),  Vol.  II.,  p.  121.] 


THE  REVOLUTION   OF  1768  IN"  LOUISIANA,  AND   ITS 
CONSEQUENCES. 

BY    JOHN    R.    FICKLEN. 

[JOHN  ROSE  FICKLEN  was  born  in  Falmouth,  Va.,  December  14,  1858.  He  attended 
the  University  of  Virginia,  where,  in  due  course,  he  took  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of 
Letters.  In  1879-80  he  was  assistant  professor  of  Ancient  Languages  in  the  Louisiana 
State  University,  at  Baton  Rouge.  He  then  resigned  this  position  and  went  to  Europe 
for  a  stay  of  one  year  and  a  half.  He  studied  Modern  Languages  in  Paris  and  at  the 
University  of  Bei'lin.  On  his  return  to  Louisiana,  in  1882,  he  was  elected  professor  of 
English  in  the  High  School  of  the  University  of  Louisiana.  He  filled  the  chair  of 
History  and  Rhetoric  in  Tulane  University  for  a  number  of  years,  and  in  1893  was 
appointed  professor  of  History  and  Political  Science  in  the  same  University.  He  has 
recently  published  A  History  of  Louisiana,  written  with  Miss  Grace  Elizabeth  King 
as  joint  author.  The  work  has  been  adopted  by  the  Louisiana  State  Board  of  Educa- 
tion for  use  in  the  public  schools.] 

RUMORS  of  the  transfer  to  Spain  reached  Louisiana  in  the  course  of 
time,  but  they  were  so  vague  and  uncertain  that  the  colonists  refused 
to  believe  them.  In  October,  1764,  however,  uncertainty  suddenly 
changed  to  certainty  ;  for  during  this  month  a  letter  addressed  to  the 
French  Governor,  M.  d'Abbadie,  came  from  his  Majesty  Louis  XV., 
announcing  that  the  cession  had  been  made,  and  that  M.  d'Abbadie 
must  hold  himself  ready  to  deliver  over  to  the  authorized  agent  of 
his  Catholic  Majesty  the  whole  province  of  Louisiana.  The  King 
expressed  a  hope,  however,  that  the  functions  of  the  religious  institu- 
tions, as  well  as  all  the  laws  and  customs  of  the  province,  would  be 
continued  by  the  King  of  Spain,  and  that  the  grants  of  lands  made 
by  the  French  Government  would  be  confirmed.  When  the  contents 
of  this  lette'r  were  made  public,  the  inhabitants  were  at  first  over- 
whelmed with  grief ;  but  soon  their  patriotism,  which  had  been  stirred 
to  its  depths  by  the  news  of  the  proposed  alienation,  found  expression 
in  the  calling  of  a  great  meeting  at  New  Orleans  from  all  the  parishes 
to  consider  what  measures  should  be  taken  to  keep  the  colony  under 
the  government  of  their  beloved  France. 

A  recent  writer  (George  W.  Cable,  in  his  Creoles  of  Louisiana)  has 
declared  that  the  true  motive  which  aroused  the  Creoles  of  Louisiana 
against  the  Spanish  Government  in  1768  was  "  not  loyalty  to  France, 
but  the  fear  of  commercial  and  industrial  annihilation."  Anger 
arising  from  the  Spanish  restrictions  on  trade  certainly  played  its 


24  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

part  in  the  expulsion  of  IJlloa ;  but  in  the  great  meeting  held  in  New 
Orleans  two  years  before  the  Spanish  Governor  arrived,  the  first  and 
predominant  feeling  of  the  Creoles  was  their  love  for  France.  Any 
fears  that  existed  of  Spanish  innovations  had  been  allayed  by  that 
passage  in  the  King  of  France's  letter  which  had  expressed  the  hope 
that  his  Catholic  Majesty  would  respect  the  laws,  customs,  and  institu- 
tions of  the  colony.  There  was  no  feeling,  therefore,  but  that  of 
burning  loyalty  to  France  when  the  assembled  inhabitants  unani- 
mously decided  to  send  to  France  an  ambassador  in  the  person  of 
Jean  Milhet,  the  richest  merchant  of  the  city,  who  should  plead  at  the 
foot  of  the  throne  that  France  would  annul  the  act  of  cession ;  that 
Louis  the  AVell-Beloved  would  take  back  a  colony  which  was  bound  to 
him  by  a  hundred  ties. 

Jean  Milhet,  thus  chosen  by  the  voice  of  the  people,  sailed  away  to 
France,  and  those  who  had  sent  him  awaited  with  deep  solicitude  the 
result  of  his  mission.  In  "France,  Bienville  was  still  alive.  Though 
the  burden  of  eighty-six  years  and  the  vicissitudes  of  his  life  had 
weakened  his  physical  powers,  his  mind  was  clear,  his  spirit  was 
active,  and  his  love  for  Louisiana  was  as  intense  as  of  old.  Sought 
out  by  Milhet,  Bienville  with  eagerness  agreed  to  accompany  the 
ambassador  to  the  King's  council  chamber,  and  to  join  his  own  prayers 
to  those  of  Milhet  for  the  restoration  of  Louisiana  to  France.  All 
petitions,  however,  must  reach  the  King  through  his  chief  minister, 
the  Due  de  Choiseul.  By  him  the  venerable  Bienville  and  Milhet 
were  received  with  great  courtesy,  but  in  this  instance  diplomatic  and 
political  matters  were  not  to  be  decided  by  an  appeal  to  sentiment. 
Choiseul,  moreover,  had  himself  been  the  King's  representative  in 
effecting  the  transfer  of  Louisiana  to  Spain,  and  had  given  to  this  act 
his  hearty  approval.  Through  him,  therefore,  there  was  no  hope  of 
success.  He  not  only  refused  to  carry  their  petition  to  the  King, 
but,  it  is  said,  skilfully  prevented  them  from  gaining  access  to  his 
Majesty. 

Such  were  the  sad  tidings  that  Milhet  was  compelled  to  send 
home,  but  he  lingered  in  France  with  the  vain  hope  that  fortune 
might  yet  favor  his  mission  through  some  change  of  policy  on  the 
part  of  the  French  Government.  Diplomacy  might  win  where  an 
appeal  to  the  heart  had  failed. 

The  prolonged  sojourn  of  Milhet  in  France,  together  with  the  delay 
of  the  Spanish  court  in  taking  possession,  kept  alive  the  hopes  of  the 
Louisianians.  Perhaps,  after  all,  they  thought,  the  transfer  of  the 
province  to  Spain  may  be  but  a  diplomatic  move  to  deceive  England, 
until  France  has  recovered  from  the  shock  of  war  and  can  declare  once 
more  her  old-time  enmity  to  that  country. 


THE  REVOLUTION  OF  1768  IN  LOUISIANA.  25 

Months  elapsed,  the  passage  of  time  serving  rather  to  lighten  than 
to  increase  the  fears  of  the  colonists,  when  finally  an  unexpected  event 
dashed  all  hopes  to  the  ground.  A  letter  came  from  Havana,  announc- 
ing the  fact  that  Don  Antonio  Ulloa,  the  newly  appointed  Spanish 
Governor,  was  on  his  way  to  take  possession  of  Louisiana.  The  letter, 
though  brief,  was  couched  in  courteous  terms ;  Ulloa  declaring  therein 
that  he  flattered  himself  in  advance  that  his  coming  would  give  him  a 
favorable  opportunity  to  render  to  the  Superior  Council  all  the  services 
which  this  body  or  the  colonists  could  desire.  On  the  28th  of  Febru- 
ary, 1766,  Ulloa  reached  the  Balize,  and  on  the  5th  of  March  following, 
more  than  four  years  after  the  famous  act  of  cession  had  been  passed, 
his  vessel  anchored  before  Xew  Orleans.  A  great  storm  of  rain  and 
thunder  announced  his  arrival;  and  the  inhabitants,  while  they 
received  him  with  every  mark  of  respect,  were  far  from  enthusiastic. 
Even  in  the  storm  they  found  an  omen  of  grief  and  disaster. 

Ulloa  was  accompanied  by  three  Spaniards  of  rank,  who  were  to 
form  his  council.  These  were  Juan  Loyola,  Commissary  of  AVar; 
Martin  Xavarro,  Treasurer ;  and  Estevan  de  Gayarre,  Royal  Auditor 
and  Comptroller.  M.  d'Abbadie  having  died  during  the  preceding 
year,  the  Governor  of  Louisiana  was  at  this  time  Charles  Aubry,  an 
officer  who  had  commanded  the  French  forces  at  Fort  Duquesne  before 
it  yielded  to  the  arms  of  George  Washington,  and  Avho  had  won  the 
Cross  of  St.  Louis  for  his  distinguished  services.  In  spite,  however,  of 
the  military  ability  which  he  had  shown  in  the  French  army,  Aubry 
was  far  from  possessing  a  noble,  independent  spirit.  He  is  said  to 
have  been  a  small,  dried-up,  insignificant-looking  man.  His  subsequent 
servility  to  the  Spaniards,  and  the  persistence  with  which  he  painted 
in  the  blackest  colors  the  actions  of  the  Creoles,  won  for  him  the  hearty 
dislike  and  contempt  of  all  the  Louisianians. 

Ulloa  had  brought  with  him  only  ninety  men.  He  had  been  led 
to  expect  that  the  French  soldiers  in  Louisiana  would  pass  under  his 
command,  but  in  this  expectation  he  was  disappointed.  These  soldiers, 
who,  it  seems,  had  already  served  beyond  their  term,  now  declared  that 
they  were  entitled  to  their  release,  and  that  they  would  enter  no  other 
service  than  that  of  their  own  King.  As  Ulloa  feared  to  use  force,  he 
found  himself  in  an  awkward  predicament.  His  proper  course  would 
have  been  to  show  his  credentials  and  appeal  to  the  act  of  cession 
signed  by  the  King  of  France.  But  Ulloa,  who  had  distinguished 
himself  in  the  world  of  letters,  was  totally  lacking  in  the  art  of  diplo- 
macy. His  humor  was  that  of  a  scholar  rather  than  that  of  a  states- 
man, and  he  pursued  a  course  far  different  from  that  which  would  have 
been  politic.  A  conciliatory  spirit  was  necessary  to  calm  the  natural 
indignation  of  the  Louisianians  thus  transferred  like  serfs  from  one 


2(1  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

master  to  another.  But  Ulloa's  petulance,  his  haughty  manners,  and 
his  total  lack  of  sympathy  Avere  the  theme  of  every  conversation. 
After  his  expulsion,  however,  he  wrote  an  account  of  his  reception  in 
Louisiana,  which  serves  in  some  measure  to  explain  his  conduct.  Some 
days  after  his  arrival,  he  tells  us,  the  merchants  presented  him  with  a 
memorial,  in  which  they  asked  him  to  define  the  course  he  intended  to 
pursue,  so  that  they  might  govern  themselves  accordingly.  In  view 
of  the  fact  that  the  Spaniard  had  not  shown  his  credentials,  the  pres- 
entation of  such  a  memorial  would  not  seem  unnatural ;  but  Ulloa, 
accustomed  to  the  homage  and  respect  he  had  everywhere  received, 
both  as  an  author  and  a  representative  of  the  Spanish  Government, 
regarded  the  conduct  of  the  inhabitants  as  "full  of  insolence  and 
menace."  His  antipathy  had  been  further  increased,  he  tells  us,  by  a 
letter  from  the  former  French  Governor,  Kerlerec,  who,  soured  by  his 
own  experiences  in  Louisiana,  now  wrote  from  the  Bastile  to  condole 
with  Ulloa  for  being  obliged  to  live  in  so  wretched  a  country. 

The  new  Governor's  first  acts,  moreover,  seemed  fated  to  stir  up 
opposition  by  wounding  the  colony  in  two  of  its  tenderest  spots — 
its  currency  and  its  commerce.  The  colonists  believed,  whether 
justly  or  not,  that  the  Spanish  Government  ought  to  redeem  the 
depreciated  currency  of  the  colony  at  par.  This  the  French  Govern- 
ment had  never  done  ;  this  Ulloa,  also,  refused  to  do.  He,  however, 
bought  up  at  seventy-five  per  cent,  discount  as  much  of  it  as  was 
offered  in  the  market,  and  tendered  it  to  his  own  soldiers  in  payment 
of  their  services,  but  even  these  declined  to  accept  it.  In  September, 
1766,  moreover,  the  merchants  were  astounded  to  learn  that  a  procla- 
mation had  been  issued  through  Aubry,  but  emanating  from  the  Span- 
ish Government,  which  placed  serious  restrictions  upon  the  maritime 
commerce  of  the  colony.  In  the  beginning,  some  commercial  privi- 
leges had  been  temporarily  granted  by  Ulloa ;  but,  on  the  ground  that 
they  had  been  abused,  these  were  now  practically  withdrawn  by  the 
Spanish  King,  and  a  series  of  vexatious  restrictions  was  substituted. 
For  instance,  a  maximum  price  for  the  sale  of  all  goods  was  fixed  by 
the  Government,  and  merchants  who  refused  to  accept  it  were  forced 
to  sell  elsewhere.  Under  the  circumstances,  this  in  itself  was  enough 
to  cause  a  revolution  among  the  merchants.  Petitions  from  them 
and  from  the  captains  of  vessels  were  immediately  presented  to  the 
Superior  Council.  Before  any  action  was  taken,  however,  Aubry 
agreed  to  suspend  the  effect  of  the  proclamation  for  a  while.  But 
great  damage  had  already  been  done  to  commerce,  for  the  fear  of 
changes  to  be  made  in  the  near  future  almost  paralyzed  the  trade 
with  the  French  and  English  colonies.  Even  Aubry  afterwards 
appealed  to  the  Spanish  Government  to  permit  a  free  exchange  of 


THE  REVOLUTION  OF  17GS  IX  LOUISIANA.  27 

goods  between  the  colony  and  the  French  possessions,  declaring  that 
it  would  be  one  of  the  greatest  benefits  which  could  be  conferred 
upon  Louisiana. 

Ulloa  himself,  who  had  been  thus  far  governing  through  the  ever- 
subservient  Aubry,  now  left  New  Orleans  and  retired  to  a  lonely 
station  at  the  Balize.  Here,  in  one  of  the  most  desolate  parts  of 
Louisiana,  he  remained  for  seven  months.  During  the  cold  winter  he 
employed  his  leisure  in  superintending  the  construction  of  a  Span- 
ish fort,  upon  which  he  spent  twenty-five  thousand  pounds  sterling. 
Such  eccentric  behavior  excited  much  comment  in  New  Orleans. 
Finally  Aubry  went  down  to  visit  him,  and  while  he  was  there  Ulloa 
proposed  to  him  that  the  act  of  taking  possession  should  be  celebrated 
at  the  Balize  instead  of  in  New  Orleans.  After  some  remonstrances 
Aubry  consented  to  this  strange  proceeding,  and  the  act  of  transfer 
was  signed  by  him,  with  the  understanding  that  on  the  following  day 
the  Spanish  flag  should  be  publicly  displayed  at  the  Balize.  When 
the  time  for  this  ceremony  arrived,  however,  L'lloa  had  changed  his 
mind  and  requested  that  the  public  act  be  deferred  till  the  arrival 
of  the  Spanish  troops.  When  Aubry  returned  to  the  city  he  did  not 
inform  the  inhabitants  of  the  secret  act  of  transfer,  but  continued  to 
govern  the  colony  as  before.  Both  he  and  Ulloa  forwarded  to  their 
respective  masters  copies  of  this  secret  act. 

In  March,  1767,  a  surprising  piece  of  news  reached  New  Orleans. 
Ulloa,  who  was  then  fifty-one  years  of  age,  had  lingered  at  the  Balize 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  Marchioness  of  Abrado,  a  rich  and  beauti- 
ful Peruvian  lady,  whom  he  had  wooed  in  her  own  country,  and  who 
had  promised  to  come  to  Louisiana  as  the  destined  bride  of  the  dis- 
tinguished Spaniard.  When  she  finally  arrived  at  the  Balize  she  was 
quickly  united  to  Ulloa  by  his  private  chaplain,  and  the  couple  came 
up  to  New  Orleans  to  spend  their  honeymoon.  The  chief  colonists 
held  aloof  from  him,  and  Ulloa,  exasperated  by  their  enmity,  made  no 
effort  to  conciliate  public  opinion.  His  persistence  in  assuming  the 
position  of  Governor  without  showing  his  credentials  added  rancor  to 
the  dislike  with  which  he  was  regarded.  Aubry  was  still  his  repre- 
sentative, and  no  Spanish  troops  arrived.  At  the  new  fort  of  the 
Balize,  however,  the  Spanish  flag  had  been  hoisted ;  and  L'lloa,  as  a 
protection  against  the  English,  established  new  posts  on  the  Missouri, 
on  the  Eiver  Iberville,  and  opposite  Natchez.  At  these  various  sta- 
tions he  distributed  the  ninety  soldiers  whom  he  had  brought,  and  took 
formal  possession.  To  these  acts  no  opposition  seems  to  have  been 
made,  though  in  New  Orleans  and  at  other  posts  on  the  river  as  far 
up  as  the  Illinois  district  the  French  flag  waved  as  before. 

This  strange  condition  of  things  was  announced   to   the  French 


28  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

Government  by  Aubry  in  January,  1768.  But  during  this  year  the 
exasperation  of  the  inhabitants  was  no  longer  to  be  restrained.  "  This 
province,"  Aubry  wrote,  "persists  in  its  desire  to  remain  French/' 
"  I  was  in  hopes,"  he  says  elsewhere,  "  that  everything  would  go  on 
quietly  till  the  arrival  of  the  Spanish  troops ;  but,  unfortunately,  a 
general  revolt  has  broken  out  against  the  Spanish  Governor  and  his 
nation,  and  upset  all  our  plans.  The  small  amount  of  money  sent 
hither  by  the  Spanish  Government,  the  debts  contracted  in  the  name 
of  the  King  of  Spain,  and  which  have  not  been  paid — all  this,  added 
to  the  general  misery  which  reigns  in  the  colony,  has  reduced  the 
people  to  a  condition  of  despair." 

In  a  previous  letter  Aubry  had  declared  that  his  position  was 
anomalous.  "  I  command  for  the  King  of  France,  and  at  the  same 
time  I  govern  the  colony  as  if  it  belonged  to  the  King  of  Spain.  The 
Governor  constantly  begs  me  to  issue  regulations  touching  the  police 
and  the  commerce  of  the  colony — regulations  which  are  a  source  of 
astonishment  to  every  one.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  task,"  he  adds,  "  to 
govern  a  province  which  for  three  years  has  not  known  whether  it  is 
French  or  Spanish,  and  which,  until  the  Spaniards  take  possession, 
has  really  no  master." 

If  such  were  the  sentiments  of  Aubry,  who  was  ever  ready,  in  his 
official  acts,  to  show  a  servile  obedience  to  Spain,  and  who  a  short 
time  afterwards  accepted  a  present  of  three  thousand  dollars  from  the 
Spanish  Government  for  his  services,  it  may  easily  be  imagined  with 
what  indignation  the  high-spirited  Creoles  regarded  the  conduct  of 
Spain.  If  that  country  declined  to  pay  the  debts  contracted  in  her 
name,  if  for  more  than  two  years  she  refused  to  send  Ulloa  sufficient 
troops  to  take  formal  possession,  it  must  be  because  she  believed  that 
so  insignificant  a  colony  could  be  held  without  any  just  sense  of  obli- 
gation, without  any  show  of  authority.  If,  therefore,  the  colonists 
wished  to  escape  the  imputation  of  cowardice  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
such  contemptuous  treatment  must  be  answered  by  an  assertion  of 
rights.  This  was  the  general  state  of  feeling  among  the  inhabitants, 
and  during  the  year  1768  it  took  shape  in  the  formation  of  a  con- 
spiracy to  expel  the  Spanish  Governor  from  Louisiana. 

John  Milhet,  who  had  at  last  returned  from  France,  bringing  with 
him  a  burden  of  disappointed  hopes,  threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into 
this  movement.  Chief  among  the  rest  were  Lafreniere,  the  attorney- 
general  ;  De  Masan,  former  captain  of  infantry ;  De  ISToyan  and  Bien- 
ville,  his  brother,  who  were  both  nephews  of  the  celebrated  founder  of 
New  Orleans ;  Marquis,  formerly  an  officer  in  a  Swiss  regiment ;  De 
Boisblanc,  a  councillor ;  Doucet,  a  lawyer ;  Joseph  Milhet,  a  merchant ; 
Caresse,  a  merchant ;  Joseph  Villere,  an  officer  on  the  German  coast ; 


THE  REVOLUTION  OF  1768  IN  LOUISIANA.  29 

Petit  and  Poupet,  merchants ;  and  Foucault,  the  intendant-commissary 
of  the  colony. 

These  conspirators  met  from  time  to  time,  near  the  limits  of  the 
city,  at  the  house  of  a  certain  Madame  Pradel,  where  they  were 
secure  from  discovery. 

In  July,  1768,  it  was  decided  that  a  secret  mission  should  be  sent 
to  the  English  Governor  at  Pensacola,  soliciting  his  aid  in  establishing 
the  independence  of  Louisiana.  In  a  report  made  afterwards  to  his 
own  government,  Ulloa  tells  us  that  the  two  men  chosen  for  this 
mission  were  Bienville  and  Masan ;  and  that  the  English  Governor, 
whose  name  was  Elliott,  after  considerable  reflection,  sent  them  back 
with  a  refusal.  He  could  hardly  have  done  otherwise ;  for  his  own 
government  had  signed  the  treaty  of  Paris  with  Spain,  and  could  not 
with  any  show  of  justice  give  aid  to  her  enemies.  Moreover,  there 
had  already  been  some  signs  of  disaffection  to  England  among  the 
American  colonies ;  and  if  Louisiana  were  to  succeed  in  establishing 
an  independent  government,  those  colonies  might  be  quick  to  follow 
the  evil  example.  Already  prophets  of  a  new  order  of  things  were 
not  wanting,  for  had  not  the  Due  de  Choiseul,  in  1765,  "  foreseeing  the 
coming  fortunes  of  the  new  world,  expressed  his  regrets  for  Louisiana, 
because  he  foresaw  that  the  American  colonies  must  soon  become 
independent "  ?  (Bancroft's  History  of  the  United  States.) 

L^ndismayed  by  the  unfavorable  response  from  Pensacola,  the  con- 
spirators determined  to  effect  the  expulsion  of  the  Spaniards  and  then 
appeal  once  more  to  France.  Their  secret  had  been  well  kept ;  but 
just  before  all  was  ready  for  the  outbreak,  it  was  betrayed  to  Ulloa  by 
a  Frenchman,  against  whom  an  adverse  decision  in  regard  to  some 
property  had  been  rendered  by  the  Superior  Council.  When  Aubry 
was  informed  of  the  movement,  he  sent  for  Lafreniere  and  protested 
against  his  conduct,  and  finally  warned  him  that  the  chiefs  of  con- 
spiracies always  come  to  tragic  ends.  Nothing,  however,  could  now 
arrest  the  course  of  events.  A  petition,  signed  by  six  hundred  of  the 
most  influential  men  in  the  colony,  was  presented  to  the  Superior 
Council,  requesting  that  Ulloa  be  required  to  depart  from  Louisiana. 
This  petition  was  supported  by  the  Attorney-General  in  a  speech  of 
burning  eloquence.  Though  born  of  humble  parents,  Lafreniere  had 
been  educated  in  France,  and  had  developed  oratorical  powers  which 
gave  him  great  influence  among  the  masses.  "  With  these  powers," 
says  Champigny,  who  knew  him  in  Louisiana,  "  he  combined  a  noble 
figure,  a  majestic  port,  an  open  countenance,  and  an  elevated  stature." 
With  burning  eye  and  impassioned  gesture,  Lafreniere  now  addressed 
the  Council,  standing  before  that  body  like  the  famous  tribune  of  the 
people,  Rienzi.  He  reminded  his  hearers  of  the  successful  resistance 


30  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

which,  three  years  before,  the  American  colonies  had  made  to  the 
Stamp  Act ;  he  reminded  them  of  the  course  taken  in  1526  by  the 
people  of  Burgundy,  when  they  refused  to  acknowledge  the  right 
of  the  King  of  France  to  cede  their  province,  and  declared  that  the 
last  drop  of  their  blood  should  be  spilt  in  defence  of  their  country. 
The  Council  adjourned  till  the  following  day,  October  29,  when 
Lafreniere  addressed  that  body  once  more,  summing  up  the  charges 
against  the  Spanish  Governor.  One  passage  from  this  speech, 
though  it  has  often  been  quoted,  will  bear  repetition  here:  "In  pro- 
portion to  the  extent  both  of  commerce  and  population  is  the  solidity 
of  thrones ;  both  are  fed  by  liberty  and  competition,  which  are  the 
nursing  mothers  of  the  State,  of  which  the  spirit  of  monopoly  is  the 
tyrant  and  stepmother.  Without  liberty  there  are  but  few  virtues. 
Despotism  breeds  pusillanimity  and  deepens  the  abyss  of  vices.  Man 
is  considered  as  sinning  before  God  only  because  he  retains  his  free 
will."  (Quoted  from  Gayarre.)  These  words,  which  have  as  deep  a 
meaning  and  as  broad  a  significance  in  our  day  as  they  had  then,  pro- 
duced a  profound  impression — an  impression  which  may  be  likened  to 
the  effect  of  Patrick  Henry's  famous  protest  pronounced  three  years 
before  (1765)  in  the  Virginia  House  of  Burgesses. 

The  Council,  responding  to  Lafreniere's  bold  appeal,  issued  a  decree 
declaring  that  Ulloa  was  "  a  usurper  of  illegal  authority,"  and  that  he 
must  leave  the  province  in  three  days.  A  thousand  people  had  assem- 
bled in  the  public  square  awaiting  this  decree  of  the  Council.  The 
Acadians  and  the  Germans,  armed  with  such  weapons  as  they  could 
procure  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  had  marched  down  to  the  city 
under  the  leadership  of  Xoyan  and  Villere.  As  soon  as  the  news  was 
known  a  white  flag  was  unfurled,  and  the  air  resounded  with  cries  of 
"  Long  live  the  King  of  France !  Long  live  Louis,  the  Well  Beloved ! " 
The  same  day  a  committee  of  the  Council  called  on  Aubry  and  re- 
quested him  to  govern  the  province  in  the  name  of  the  King  of  France. 

Aubry,  however,  whose  sympathies  were  altogether  with  the 
Spaniards,  boldly  protested  against  the  decree  of  expulsion ;  but  the 
determination  of  the  people  nullified  his  protest.  As  the  city,  there- 
fore, was  really  in  the  hands  of  the  revolutionary  party,  and  as  Aubry 
had  no  adequate  force  to  make  resistance,  Ulloa  and  his  wife  retired 
on  board  a  French  frigate,  which  was  made  ready  to  sail.  As  to 
Ulloa's  assistants,  Messrs.  Loyola,  Navarro,  and  Gayarre,  the  Council 
had  decreed  that  they  should  remain  in  the  province  as  sponsors  for 
the  bonds  they  had  issued,  unless  they  produced  the  orders  of  the 
Spanish  King.  The  retention  of  these  officials  to  secure  the  payment 
of  Spanish  debts  was  regarded  by  Spain  as  no  lesser  insult  than  the 
expulsion  of  Ulloa. 


THE  REVOLUTION  OF  1768  IN  LOUISIANA.  31 

While  Ulloa's  frigate  was  still  anchored  in  the  river  it  happened 
that  there  was  a  wedding  in  New  Orleans.  Some  young  men,  flushed 
with  wine,  were  returning  from  the  festivities  at  a  late  hour  of  the 
night.  Acting  under  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  they  cut  the  cables 
of  the  frigate  and  allowed  it  to  float  down  the  river.  It  was  finally 
stopped  by  those  on  board,  but  the  following  day  the  Spanish  Gov- 
ernor, taking  the  hint,  sailed  away  to  Havana.  Some  hot-headed 
patriots,  acting  under  the  orders  of  Marquis,  prepared  to  follow  him 
down  the  river  and  seize  the  fort  at  the  Balize ;  but  after  they  had 
embarked,  Aubry,  who  had  a  small  body  of  troops,  threatened  to  open 
fire  upon  them  if  they  persisted  in  their  intention.  "For  the  first 
time  since  the  beginning  of  the  revolt,"  says  Aubry  in  his  report  to 
the  Ministry,  "  I  was  obeyed ;  and  Ulloa  departed  under  the  escort  of 
an  officer  and  a  detachment  sent  by  myself  to  accompany  him  to  the 
sea," 

When  he  reached  Havana,  Ulloa  found  a  body  of  troops  and  a  large 
sum  of  money,  which,  after  years  of  vacillating  policy,  the  King  of 
Spain  was  finally  sending  to  Louisiana.  If  they  had  been  sent  sooner, 
one  sad  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  colony  might  perhaps  have  never 
been  written.  Instead  of  returning  to  New  Orleans,  however,  Ulloa 
lingered  for  a  while  at  Havana,  and  then  sailed  for  Spain. 

Thus  the  colony  was  rid  for  the  time  being  of  Spanish  government. 
The  revolution  had  been  accomplished  with  the  consent  and  coopera- 
tion of  the  Superior  Council ;  it  had  been  accomplished  without  shed- 
ding one  drop  of  blood,  but  its  dire  consequences  will  never  be  forgotten 
in  Louisiana. 

When  the  decree  of  expulsion  was  issued  against  Ulloa,  it  Avas 
decided  by  the  Superior  Council  that  deputies  should  be  sent  to  the 
French  King  to  solicit  his  protection.  Though  Milhet  had  failed  to 
win  a  hearing,  another  mission,  it  was  thought,  would  surely  succeed, 
now  that  the  colony  had  shown  its  determination  to  reject  the  Spanish 
domination.  The  men  chosen  for  this  important  mission  were  Charles 
le  Sassier  on  the  part  of  the  Council,  and  St.  Lette  on  the  part  of  the 
inhabitants.  When  Ulloa  departed,  however,  Aubry  had  delivered  to 
him  a  document  which  was  to  be  shown  to  the  Spanish  court  and  then 
forwarded  to  the  French  minister.  In  this  document  Aubry  attempted 
to  justify  his  own  course,  and  at  the  same  time  heaped  charges  on  the 
heads  of  the  revolutionary  party.  Not  content  with  this,  he  sent  over 
to  France  as  his  representative  M.  Lapeyriere,  who  was  commissioned 
to  give  a  full  account  of  the  revolution  and  to  counteract  any  influence 
that  might  be  exercised  by  the  other  deputies.  Aubry  even  warned 
the  French  minister  that  these  deputies  would  tell  a  different  story  and 
were  not  to  be  believed. 


32  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

On  the  8th  of  November  a  formal  investigation  was  held  touching 
the  conduct  of  Ulloa  while  in  Louisiana.  Witnesses  were  examined 
and  elaborate  testimony  was  taken.  In  the  full  record  of  the  proceed- 
ings, which  has  come  down  to  us,  there  is  a  long  and  curious  array  of 
charges.  Some  convict  Ulloa  merely  of  petty  tyranny  in  violating  the 
customs  of  the  colony.  One  of  the  witnesses,  for  example,  was  the 
famous  vicar-general  Pere  Dagobert,  whose  career  in  Louisiana  has 
been  celebrated  in  exquisite  verse  by  one  *  of  our  Southern  poets.  The 
good  father's  deposition  against  Ulloa  was  simply  to  the  effect  that 
the  Spanish  Governor  had  caused  to  be  solemnized  in  his  own  house  a 
marriage  ceremony,  for  which  no  banns  had  been  published,  and  which 
was  performed  by  a  private  chaplain  without  consent  of  the  vicar- 
general.  "  Moreover,"  added  Dagobert,  "  I  have  been  informed  that 
the  contracting  parties  were  a  white  man  and  a  negress !  Further- 
more, M.  Ulloa,  by  his  own  secret  marriage  to  a  Spanish  lady  at  the 
Balize,  and  by  his  bringing  her  in  triumph  to  the  city,  gave  rise  to  a 
great  deal  of  scandal ;  for  the  said  marriage  was  marked  by  a  total 
disregard  of  the  forms  prescribed  by  the  civil  and  canonical  authori- 
ties." 

The  testimony  of  other  witnesses,  however,  was  far  more  serious, 
for  it  showed  that  Ulloa  had  arrogated  to  himself  the  right  to  govern 
the  province  in  an  arbitrary  manner,  while  refusing  to  exhibit  any 
titles  or  powers  from  the  King  his  master. 

Long  memorials  justifying  the  revolution  were  now  drawn  up  and 
intrusted  to  Le  Sassier  and  St.  Lette,  who  were  to  bear  to  the  foot  of 
the  French  throne  the  most  humble  protestations  of  love  and  devo- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  Superior  Council  and  the  inhabitants. 

The  revolutionists  had  now  nothing  to  do  but  to  await  the  result 
of  this  second  mission.  It  seems  strange  that  any  hope  of  success 
could  have  lingered  in  their  hearts.  They  must  have  known  that  the 
infamous  King  of  France  was  absorbed  in  his  dissolute  pleasures  and 
cared  nothing  for  the  fate  of  Louisiana.  Moreover,  they  saw  them- 
selves confronted  with  the  open  hostility  of  Aubry,  which  was  enough 
in  itself  to  render  fruitless  any  mission  to  the  French  court.  Foucault, 
also,  who  had  acted  with  them  in  the  beginning,  now  began  to  write 
hypocritical  letters  to  France,  justifying  his  own  course  and  accusing 
his  former  friends  of  being  selfish  traitors  who  sought  their  own 
aggrandizement. 

When  the  deputies,  after  a  long  voyage,  arrived  in  Paris,  they 
found  that  the  aged  Bienville  was  dead  and  that  the  King's  minister 
was  still  the  inexorable  Choiseul.  Neither  Choiseul'nor  his  master  could 

*  [Mrs.  Mollie  E.  M.  Davis.      Vide  p.  393.] 


THE  REVOLUTION  OF  1768  IN  LOUISIANA.  33 

be  moved  by  the  prayers  of  the  far-away  colonists  ;  their  hearts  were 
steeled  against  all  such  petitions.  "  It  is  too  late  now  to  change  the 
policy  of  the  French  court,"  was  the  only  answer  that  the  deputies 
could  obtain.  St.  Lette,  who  had  been  a  school  friend  of  the  minister, 
was  offered  a  lucrative  position  and  remained  in  France;  while  Le 
Sassier,  alone  and  sad  at  heart,  carried  back  to  Louisiana  the  tidings 
of  failure.  The  only  result  of  the  mission  was  an  unfortunate  one  for 
Louisiana.  The  memorial  from  the  merchants,  of  which  St.  Lette  had 
been  the  bearer,  was  published  in  some  of  the  foreign  gazettes,  and 
though  it  excited  the  deep  sympathy  of  many  who  read  it,  its  adverse 
criticisms  of  the  Spanish  Government  aroused  the  indignation  and 
gained  the  bitter  enmity  of  the  Spanish  King  and  his  court. 

While  the  revolutionary  leaders  were  awaiting  the  news  from 
France  they  found  it  difficult  to  keep  up  the  enthusiasm  of  the  mass 
of  the  people.  Many  of  these  were  asking  themselves  what  would  be 
the  consequences  of  this  uprising  against  the  authority  of  the  Spanish 
nation.  If  that  nation,  famous  for  its  pride  and  cruelty,  should  deter- 
mine to  send  an  army  to  punish  this  rebellion,  would  not  the  meagre 
resources  of  the  colony  and  its  insignificant  body  of  troops  be  power- 
less to  resist  ?  Would  not  the  annihilation  of  the  colony  follow  as 
an  inevitable  result  ?  That  many  should  ask  themselves  this  ques- 
tion was  but  natural.  A  recent  writer,  however  (Cable,  in  his 
Creoles  of  Louisiana),  taking  the  revolution  of  1768  as  a  text,  has 
thought  proper  to  declare  that  "  it  was  the  fate  of  the  Creoles — pos- 
sibly a  climatic  result — to  be  slack-handed  and  dilatory."  "Month 
after  month,"  he  adds,  "  followed  that  October  uprising  without  one 
of  those  incidents  that  would  have  succeeded  in  the  history  of  an 
earnest  people.  Not  a  fort  was  taken,  though  it  is  probable  not  one 
would  have  withstood  assault.  The  Creoles  had  not  made  that  study 
of  reciprocal  justice  and  natural  rights  which  becomes  men  who  would 
resist  tyranny." 

All  this  criticism  seems  to  the  present  writer  both  unkind  and  un- 
just. The  original  intention  of  the  Creoles  in  the  expulsion  of  Ulloa 
was  simply  to  rid  themselves  of  the  hated  Spanish  Government,  and 
then  return  to  that  which  was  still  very  dear  to  them — the  milder  rule 
of  France.  When  the  Spaniard  had  departed,  they  sent  ambassadors 
to  France  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  out  this  second  object.  It  was 
only  natural  that  they  should  await  the  result  of  this  embassy,  and  in 
those  days  of  slow  travel  the  result  was  not  known  for  several  months. 
True,  it  would  have  been  easy  for  them  to  seize  the  Spanish  forts,  but 
a  victory  over  the  small  garrisons  stationed  in  them  would  have  been 
a  barren  victory  ;  it  would  not  have  assisted  their  cause  at  the  court 
of  France,  and  if  they  had  at  that  time  intended  to  establish  a  repub- 


34  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

lie,  it  would  not  in  any  way  have  furthered  that  object.  They  con- 
tented themselves,  therefore,  with  issuing  a  decree  that  the  Spanish 
frigate  which  Ulloa  had  left  behind  him,  and  which  had  been  laid  up 
for  repairs,  should  depart  from  the  province.  They  were  neither 
"  slack-handed  "  nor  "  dilatory  "  in  accomplishing  the  main  objects 
they  had  in  view.* 

When,  moreover,  Le  Sassier  brought  back  the  news  that  France  had 
deserted  them  and  practically  delivered  them  over  to  the  vengeance  of 
Spain,  then  some  of  the  boldest  spirits  revived  the  plan  of  establishing 
a  republic — this  time  without  the  assistance  of  England.  Marquis, 
who  was  a  Swiss,  and  hence  had  lived  under  a  republic,  was  afterward 
accused  by  the  Spaniards  of  originating  this  plan ;  but  he  denied  it, 
though  he  admitted  that  he  had  seen  a  document  drawn  uj)  for  the 
formation  of  a  new  government  in  Louisiana.  The  author  may  very 
well  have  been  Lafreniere ;  for  we  know  from  Aubry's  report  that  he 
favored  the  scheme  and  presented  a  petition  to  the  Council  requesting 
that  a  bank  like  the  one  in  Amsterdam  and  Tenice  should  be  established 
in  the  colony.  But  after  the  Creoles  had  discussed  among  themselves 
the  possibility  of  carrying  such  a  scheme  of  government  to  a  success- 
ful issue,  they  wisely  came  to  the  conclusion  that  for  the  time  being  it 
was  absolutely  Utopian.  They  renounced  it  not  because  they  had  failed 
to  make  "  that  study  of  reciprocal  justice  and  natural  rights  which 
becomes  men  who  would  resist  tyranny,"  but  because  they  clearly  saw 
that,  even  if  England  and  France  remained  neutral,  Spain  would 
condemn  and  crush  a  republic,  the  establishment  of  which  would  be 
a  dangerous  example  of  successful  revolt  against  monarchical  gov- 
ernment. It  is  unreasonable  to  maintain  that  because  the  American 
colonies  some  years  later  were  successful  in  their  struggle  against  Eng- 
land, and  even  received  the  overt  assistance  of  Louis  XVI.,  Louisiana 
might  at  this  period  have  succeeded  in  winning  her  independence.  It 
is  unjust,  therefore,  to  maintain  that,  "  had  the  Creoles  made  a  study  of 
reciprocal  justice  and  natural  rights,  had  they  not  lacked  steadiness 
of  purpose,  the  insurrection  of  1768  might  have  been  a  revolution  for 
the  overthrow  of  French  and  Spanish  misrule,  and  the  establishment 
and  maintenance  of  the  right  of  self-government  "  (Cable).  In  fact, 
this  assertion  becomes  simply  preposterous  when  we  remember  that 
at  this  time  the  Avhole  population  scattered  through  Louisiana  was,  if 
we  exclude  the  slaves,  only  six  thousand  souls.  What  could  such  a 
population,  unaided,  accomplish  against  the  forces  of  one  of  the  most 
powerful  kings  in  Europe  ? 

It  was  impossible,  therefore,  to  do  otherwise  than  renounce  this 

*  In  their  campaigns  under  Galvez  and  in  their  defence  of  New  Orleans  under  Jack- 
son the  Creoles  showed  that  they  were  neither  a  "  slack -handed  "  nor  a  •'  dilatory  "  race. 


THE  REVOLUTION  OF  1768   IN  LOUISIANA.  35 

dream  of  establishing  a  free  government,  but  it  will  ever  be  a  matter 
of  pride  to  the  Louisianians  that  this  bold  scheme  was  nurtured  in  the 
brains  of  the  patriotic  Creoles  of  1769,  seven  years  before  Jefferson 
gave  to  the  world  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

When  the  news  of  the  expulsion  of  Ulloa  was  announced  in  Spain, 
that  country  was  quickly  aroused  from  the  state  of  indifference  into 
which  she  had  fallen  with  reference  to  Louisiana.  A  council  of  wise 
men  was  straightway  called  to  deliberate  upon  the  fate  of  the  province, 
and  with  only  one  dissenting  voice  it  was  decided  that  Louisiana  should 
be  kept  as  a  check  upon  the  advance  of  the  English  into  Mexico. 
Measures  were  taken  accordingly. 

In  the  meantime  the  colony  remained  a  prey  to  uncertainty  and 
internal  commotion.  On  the  24th  of  July,  1769,  however,  the  inhabi- 
tants were  thrown  into  a  state  of  intense  excitement  by  the  an- 
nouncement that  a  new  Spanish  Governor,  Don  Alexandro  O'Keilly, 
with  a  fleet  and  a  force  of  several  thousand  men,  had  arrived  at  the 
Balize. 

In  the  hearts  of  some  there  were  thoughts  of  resistance.  Marquis 
himself  donned  a  white  cockade  and  summoned  all  those  who  were 
opposed  to  the  Spanish  domination  to  rally  around  him.  Only  a  hun- 
dred men  answered  his  summons.  Many  who  formerly  had  been  willing 
to  follow  him  now  felt  that  resistance  to  O'Keilly 's  forces  could  bring  to 
the  colony  nothing  but  ruin  and  disaster.  Aubry,  moreover,  took  all 
possible  measures  to  calm  the  inhabitants  and  engage  them  to  submit 
to  Spanish  authority. 

On  the  25th,  at  midnight,  a  distinguished  Spaniard,  Francisco 
Bouligny,  arrived  in  New  Orleans.  He  had  come  as  the  official  repre- 
sentative of  O'Reilly.  Aubry  entertained  him  with  every  mark  of 
respect,  and  ordered  preparations  to  be  made  for  the  reception  of  the 
new  Governor. 

Lafreniere  now  called  upon  Aubry,  and  said  that  if  Aubry  would 
give  him  a  letter  to  O'Reilly,  he,  accompanied  by  Jean  Milhet  and 
Pierre  Marquis,  would  go  down  to  meet  the  Governor  at  the  Balize 
and  render  to  him  the  homage  of  the  inhabitants.  By  this  action  he 
hoped  to  win  the  clemency  of  the  Spanish  authorities  and  save  the 
colony  from  a  hostile  invasion.  As  this  step  met  with  the  approval 
of  Aubry,  the  deputies  set  off  for  the  Balize.  Here  they  were  received 
by  O'Reilly  with  great  courtesy,  and  invited  to  dine  on  board  his 
ship.  His  conduct  was  such  as  to  allay  apprehensions,  though  in 
response  to  a  speech  from  Lafreniere  he  declared  that  as  yet  he  knew 
neither  the  province  nor  its  people.  "  After  informing  myself  of 
recent  events,"  he  added,  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  perform  all  the  kind 


36  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

offices  I  can,  and  I  will  avoid  all  acts  militating  against  the  peace  of 
the  province,  except  such  as  may  be  justifiable  and  necessary." 

The  return  of  the  envoys  served  to  calm  the  excitement  of  the 
populace,  and  when,  on  the  18th  of  August,  O'Eeilly  with  his  forces 
disembarked  at  New  Orleans,  the  act  of  taking  possession,  as 
Aubry  declares,  was  celebrated  "with  all  the  brilliancy,  pomp,  and 
grandeur  that  befitted  the  monarch  of  whom  he  was  the  represen- 
tative." 

The  scene  in  the  old  Place  d'Armes  was  calculated  to  impress  every 
beholder.  All  the  French  troops  and  the  militia  having  been  drawn 
up  in  the  square,  Aubry  placed  himself  at  their  head  and  advanced 
to  meet  O'Reilly  as  he  descended  in  full  uniform  from  his  vessel. 
Bridges  were  then  thrown  from  the  other  vessels  to  the  levee,  and 
three  thousand  soldiers,  in  regular  columns,  marched  down  to  the 
square.  When  the  two  Governors  met,  O'Reilly  announced  his  name 
and  rank.  He  then  requested  Aubry  to  read  to  the  assembled  people 
the  orders  of  his  Most  Catholic  Majesty,  as  well  as  those  of  the  King 
of  France.  This  was  accordingly  done,  and  Aubry,  addressing  the 
inhabitants,  spoke  as  follows  : 

"  You  have  just  heard  the  sacred  orders  of  their  Majesties  the 
Kings  of  France  and  Spain,  in  regard  to  the  province  of  Louisiana, 
which  is  irrevocably  ceded  to  the  Spanish  Crown.  From  this  moment 
you  are  subjects  of  his  Most  Catholic  Majesty,  and  in  virtue  of  the 
orders  of  the  King,  my  master,  I  release  you  from  the  oath  of  fidelity 
and  obedience  which  bound  you  to  the  King  of  France." 

Then,  amid  the  sharp  reports  of  musketry,  the  Spaniards  shouted, 
"  Long  live  the  King  of  Spain ! "  while  the  heavy  guns  of  the  ships 
pealed  forth  their  salutes.  After  the  keys  of  the  city  had  been  deliv- 
ered to  O'Reilly,  the  two  Governors  and  their  officers  turned  from  the 
parade  ground,  and,  entering  the  church,  listened  to  a  solemn  "  Te 
Deum,"  chanted  in  honor  of  these  important  events.  A  review  of  the 
Spanish  veterans  brought  by  O'Reilly  completed  this  impressive  cere- 
mony and  announced  the  close  of  the  French  domination  in  Louisiana. 

The  colonists,  knowing  that  resistance  was  useless,  and  only  hoping 
that  the  past  would  be  forgotten,  acquiesced  in  the  new  order  of 
things  without  a  murmur. 

Aubry  also  may  have  expected  that  past  events  would  be  forgotten ; 
but  on  the  day  following  the  ceremony  O'Reilly  addressed  him  a  let- 
ter, in  which  he  asked  for  a  full  account  of  the  late  rebellion,  with  the 
names  of  the  leaders,  and  especially  of  the  authors  of  the  libellous 
memoir  that  had  been  issued  by  the  inhabitants.  One  would  suppose 
that  Aubry  would  have  answered,  that,  as  Ulloa  had  never  taken  for- 


THE  REVOLUTION  OF  1768  IN  LOUISIANA.  37 

mal  possession  of  the  province,  only  the  King  of  France  could  rightly 
demand  such  information.  On  the  arrival  of  O'Reilly  he  himself  had, 
for  the  first  time,  released  the  inhabitants  from  their  oath  of  allegiance 
to  the  King  of  France ;  how,  then,  could  he  accuse  them,  before  a 
Spanish  Governor,  of  being  rebels  and  traitors  ? 

Nevertheless  he  immediately  made  a  report  to  O'Reilly,  in  which 
he  gave  full  particulars  of  the  events  that  led  to  and  followed  Ulloa's 
expulsion.  Far  from  extenuating  the  faults  of  the  revolutionary 
party,  he  painted  the  whole  affair  in  the  darkest  colors,  declaring, 
among  other  things,  that  the  memoir  of  the  inhabitants  had  originally 
contained  terrible  "  blasphemies  "  directed  against  the  Spanish  nation, 
and  that  these  had  been  omitted  only  at  his  earnest  solicitation.  "  I 
cannot  tell  your  eminence,"  he  continues,  "  to  what  point  the  feeling 
of  indignation  and  rage  against  the  Spanish  government  and  nation 
was  carried."  Not  only  did  he  name  the  chief  revolutionists,  whom 
he  described  as  the  richest  and  most  distinguished  men  in  the  colony, 
but  he  also  declared  that,  after  the  expulsion  of  Ulloa,  they  were 
engaged  in  the  most  audacious  and  rebellious  acts  to  stir  up  the  people 
and  fill  them  with  horror  of  the  Spaniards.  Not  a  word  did  he  add 
to  excuse  the  rashness  of  those  hot-headed  Creoles ;  not  a  word  did  he 
add  with  respect  to  the  conduct  of  Ulloa,  which  had  precipitated  the 
revolution. 

The  attitude  that  Aubry  assumed,  while  it  won  him  the  gratitude 
of  the  Spaniards,  sealed  the  doom  of  the  chief  conspirators.  It  could 
hardly  be  expected  that  O'Reilly,  a  soldier  accustomed  to  the  stern 
discipline  of  the  Spanish  army,  would  show  any  mercy  to  men  who 
were  regarded  as  iniquitous  traitors  by  their  own  Governor. 

The  subsequent  events  must  be  briefly  related.  On  the  following 
day  O'Reilly  decoyed  to  his  house  under  various  pretexts  the  greater 
number  of  those  whom  he  wished  to  arrest.  Though  he  had  already 
commanded  some  of  his  troops  to  assemble  around  the  house,  he 
received  his  visitors  courteously  and  disarmed  their  suspicions.  Pres- 
ently, however,  they  were  invited  into  an  adjoining  room,  where,  in 
the  presence  of  Aubry,  their  swords  were  demanded.  Addressing 
them,  O'Reilly  said :  "  The  Spanish  nation  is  venerated  and  respected 
throughout  the  world.  Louisiana  is  the  only  country  which  is  lacking 
in  the  proper  sentiments  towards  that  nation.  The  King  of  Spain  has 
been  offended  by  the  writings  that  have  emanated  from  the  colony  and 
by  the  insult  offered  to  Ulloa.  I  have  been  commanded  by  his  Catho- 
lic Majesty  to  arrest  and  judge  according  to  the  laws  the  authors  of 
the  rebellion.  All  your  goods,"  he  concluded,  "  will  be  confiscated, 
but  you  yourselves  will  be  treated  with  proper  consideration,  and 
needful  succor  will  be  afforded  to  your  wives  and  children." 


427833 


38  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

The  full  list  of  those  arrested  by  O'Reilly's  orders  is  given  in 
Aubry 's  report,  as  follows : 

De  Laf reniere,  attorney-general ;  De  Hasan,  a  retired  captain  of 
cavalry ;  De  Noyan,  a  retired  captain  of  cavalry ;  Harquis,  formerly 
captain  in  a  Swiss  regiment ;  De  Boisblanc,  a  councillor ;  Doucet,  a 
lawyer ;  Joseph  and  Jean  Hilhet,  merchants ;  Caresse,  a  merchant ; 
Villere,  a  militia  officer ;  Petit  and  Poupet,  both  merchants ;  and 
Foucault,  the  French  King's  commissary. 

When  O'Reilly  reached  New  Orleans,  Villere  was  absent  on  his 
plantation.  He  had  thought  of  retiring  from  the  colony  and  seeking 
refuge  among  the  English  ;  but  he  was,  persuaded,  it  is  said,  by  a  letter 
from  Aubry,  to  repair  to  the  city.  Here  he  was  immediately  arrested 
and  placed  aboard  a  frigate  as  a  prisoner.  There  are  several  accounts 
of  his  fate,  all  of  which  differ  in  some  particulars.  The  most  probable 
account  declares  that  while  he  was  being  put  in  confinement  he  deter- 
mined to  escape,  and  crying,  "  Villere  was  not  born  to  die  on  a  scaf- 
fold," he  attempted  to  break  through  his  guards.  One  of  these  ran  a 
bayonet  through  his  thigh.  Overcome  with  rage  and  despair,  Villere 
fell  upon  the  deck,  and  a  few  days  afterwards  expired. 

Foucault,  who,  as  we  have  seen,  had  played  throughout  the  revolu- 
tion the  part  of  an  adroit  scoundrel,  now  refused  to  admit  O'Reilly's 
jurisdiction,  and  demanded  to  be  sent  to  France  for  trial.  He  had 
won  the  contempt  alike  of  the  Creoles  and  the  Spaniards,  and  O'Reilly 
allowed  him  to  depart.  It  is  some  consolation  to  know  that  when  he 
reached  France  the  King  immediately  cast  him  into  the  Bastile. 
According  to  Champigny,  it  was  hinted  to  Noyan  that,  if  he  chose  to 
make  the  attempt,  his  escape  would  be  winked  at  by  the  Spanish 
authorities ;  but  he  had  the  courageous  spirit  of  his  uncle  Bienville, 
and  refused  to  desert  his  comrades.  As  he  was  young  and  had 
recently  married  the  daughter  of  Lafreniere,  great  sympathy  was 
expressed  for  his  untimely  fate.  Special  indulgence  was  shown  to  his 
brother  Bienville ;  for,  though  he  was  among  those  against  whom 
Aubry  had  preferred  charges,  he  was  never  arrested. 

As  the  men  imprisoned  by  O'Reilly  were  the  most  prominent  and 
most  beloved  in  the  colony,  the  grief  of  the  Creoles  kneAV  no  bounds. 
Sympathy  with  O'Reilly's  victims,  moreover,  was  mingled  with  fears 
for  their  own  safety.  To  allay  these  fears,  O'Reilly  now  informed 
Aubry  that  he  expected  all  the  inhabitants  to  take  the  oath  of  alle- 
giance to  the  Spanish  King.  If  any,  however,  wished  to  retire  from  the 
colony,  and  thus  avoid  the  oath,  they  were  free  to  do  so. 

On  the  day  appointed,  the  colonists,  seemingly  reconciled  to  their 
fate,  came  forward  and  took  the  oath.  Even  representatives  from  the 
German  and  Acadian  coasts  hurried  down  the  river  in  obedience  to 


THE  REVOLUTION  OF  1768   IN  LOUISIANA.  39 

O'Reilly's  order,  and  swore  to  obey  his  Catholic  Majesty.  The 
Acadians,  at  least,  remembered  the  fatal  consequences  of  their  failure 
to  accept  the  oath  offered  them  in  their  native  country  by  the  English 
Government. 

To  demand  this  oath  of  allegiance  was  a  practical  admission  on 
O'Reilly's  part  that  up  to  this  time  all  the  inhabitants  had  been  sub- 
jects of  the  King  of  France.  Hence  this  act  seemed  to  augur  well  for 
the  fate  of  the  imprisoned  revolutionists.  But  the  whole  course  of 
events  had  already  been  mapped  out  by  the  new  Governor.  The  day 
for  the  great  trial  was  soon  fixed.  It  was  to  be  conducted  before  a 
number  of  Spanish  officers,  with  O'Reilly  as  president.  In  accord- 
ance with  legal  usages  in  cases  of  high  treason,  the  accused  were  not 
allowed  lawyers  to  plead  in  their  defence.  One  exception,  however, 
was  made :  it  was  permitted  that  Yillere,  who  was  dead,  should  have 
an  attorney  to  defend  his  memory. 

On  the  20th  of  October,  1769,  Don  Felix  del  Rey,  a  distinguished 
advocate,  practising  in  the  courts  of  San  Domingo  and  Mexico,  and 
now  appointed  the  King's  attorney-general  to  conduct  this  trial,  pre- 
sented to  the  judges  an  exhaustive  exposition  of  the  case  against  the 
prisoners.  In  the  archives  of  the  Louisiana  Historical  Society  the 
French  translation  of  Del  Rey's  argument  covers  sixty-four  pages  of 
manuscript.  In  it  he  shows  what  part  each  of  the  prisoners  had 
taken  in  the  rebellion,  and  maintains  that  while  Ulloa  had  never  shown 
to  the  Council  his  titles  of  authority,  nevertheless  all  departments  of 
the  colony — the  ecclesiastical,  the  military,  and  the  political — had 
tacitly  accepted  him  as  Governor,  as  was  proved  by  the  fact  that  all 
the  expenses  of  the  colony  had  been  paid  by  the  Spanish  commissary 
department.  This  was  an  acknowledgment,  he  declares,  of  Ulloa's 
authority,  and  all-sufficient  to  convict  the  prisoners  of  treason  toward 
the  Spanish  Government.  If  they  wished  to  deny  Ulloa's  authority 
they  should  have  done  so  in  the  beginning.  In  truth,  their  very 
presence  in  the  colony  after  France  had  transferred  it  to  Spain 
stamped  them  as  subjects  of  his  Catholic  Majesty. 

It  was  vain  for  the  prisoners  to  plead  that  Ulloa's  authority  had 
been  exercised  wholly  through  Aubry,  who  was  the  titular  Governor 
in  the  service  of  the  King  of  France ;  it  was  vain  for  them  to  deny 
the  jurisdiction  of  the  Spanish  judges  and  to  demand  a  trial  conducted 
in  French  courts  according  to  French  laws.  All  pleas  were  overruled, 
and  the  judges,  convinced  by  Del  Rey's  argument  of  the  guilt  of  the 
accused,  pronounced  sentence  through  O'Reilly  as  president  of  the 
court.  It  was  as  follows :  Lafreniere,  Noyan,  Caresse,  Marquis,  and 
Joseph  Milhet,  as  chiefs  of  the  rebellion,  were  to  be  led  to  the  gallows, 
with  ropes  around  their  necks  and  mounted  on  asses ;  there  to  be 


40  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

hanged.  As  Joseph  Villere,  who  was  dead,  had  been  proved  to  be 
"  one  of  the  most  persistent  of  the  said  conspirators,"  his  memory  was 
declared  infamous  for  all  time.  The  remaining  prisoners  were  con- 
demned to  various  terms  of  confinement  in  the  castle  of  De  Moro,  in 
Cuba. 

Every  effort  was  made  to  stir  the  pity  of  O'Reilly  in  behalf  of  the 
condemned,  but  even  before  the  grief  and  prayers  of  their  relatives 
he  remained  inexorable.  He  was  a  stern  soldier,  who  doubtless 
thought  he  had  shown  sufficient  mercy  in  not  condemning  all  the 
prisoners  to  death.  One  change  in  his  plans  he  did  make,  but  this 
was  forced  upon  him.  As  he  was  informed  that  there  was  no  hang- 
man in  the  colony,  he  ordered  that  the  prisoners  should  be  shot — 
"  passes  par  les  armes,"  as  we  are  told  in  the  old  French  document. 

Accordingly,  on  the  day  appointed,  the  five  prisoners,  their  arms 
securely  bound,  were  conducted  to  a  small  square  near  the  quarters 
of  the  Lisbon  regiment  (perhaps  where  the  lower  portion  of  the 
French  market  now  stands).  Here  a  great  number  of  troops  had 
been  assembled,  and  here  the  sentence  of  death  was  read  aloud. 
Refusing  to  have  their  eyes  bandaged,  the  noble  five  faced  death  like 
true  patriots.  One  broad  sheet  of  fire  from  the  guns  of  the  Spanish 
grenadiers,  and  all  was  still.  The  last  act  of  the  tragedy  had  been 
played. 

Upon  whom  must  the  responsibility  fall  for  this  judicial  murder, 
which  casts  a  dark  stain  across  the  annals  of  Louisiana  ?  It  seems  to 
be  clearly  proved,  by  the  documents  that  have  come  down  to  us,  that 
O'Reilly  acted  under  the  orders  of  his  King,  for  in  the  report  of  his 
proceedings  made  to  the  King  of  Spain  by  the  Council  of  the  Indies 
his  conduct  is  eulogized,  and  these  words  occur :  "  The  inhabitants 
of  Louisiana  rose  in  rebellion ;  for  which  reason  your  Majesty  com- 
missioned Don  Alexandro  O'Reilly  to  proceed  thither,  take  formal 
possession,  chastise  the  ringleaders,  and  establish  a  suitable  form  of 
government."  The  Spanish  King  intended  to  punish  severely  what 
in  those  days  was  regarded  as  the  greatest  of  crimes — treason.  As 
to  Aubry,  his  conduct,  it  is  true,  gained  for  him  the  favor  of  the 
French  court,  and  when  some  months  later  he  lost  his  life  in  a 
storm,  his  family  received  a  pension.  In  Louisiana,  however,  he  had 
branded  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  Creoles  as  a  mean-spirited  informer. 
It  is  upon  his  disgraceful  servility  to  the  Spaniards,  therefore,  that  a 
share  of  the  responsibility  must  rest ;  while  the  greater  portion  must 
still  fall  upon  the  weak  acquiescence  of  the  French  court,  which 
refused  to  interfere  for  the  protection  of  a  band  of  patriots  whose 
only  fault  was  their  too  great  devotion  to  their  King  and  his 
government. 


THE   SOUTH'S  FIRST  CROP  OF   SUGAR. 

[From  Harper's  Magazine.     Copyright,  1887,  by  Harper  and  Brothers.] 
BY    CHARLES    GAYARRE. 

INDIGO  had  been  the  principal  staple  of  the  colony,  but  at  last  a 
worm  which  attacked  the  plant  and  destroyed  it,  through  consecutive 
years,  was  reducing  to  poverty  and  to  the  utmost  despair  the  whole 
population.  Jean  Etienne  de  Bore  determined  to  make  a  bold  experi- 
ment to  save  himself  and  his  fellow-citizens,  and  convert  his  indigo 
plantation  into  one  of  sugar-cane. 

In  these  critical  circumstances  he  resolved  to  renew  the  attempt 
Avhich  had  been  made  to  manufacture  sugar.  He  immediately  pre- 
pared to  go  into  all  the  expenses  and  incur  all  the  obligations  conse- 
quent on  so  costly  an  undertaking.  His  wife  warned  him  that  her 
father  had  in  former  years  vainly  made  a  similar  attempt ;  she  repre- 
sented that  he  was  hazarding  on  the  cast  of  a  die  all  that  remained  of 
their  means  of  existence ;  that  if  he  failed,  as  was  so  probable,  he 
would  reduce  his  family  to  hopeless  poverty  ;  that  he  was  of  an  age — 
being  over  fifty  years  old — when  fate  was  not  to  be  tempted  by  doubt- 
ful experiments,  as  he  could  not  reasonably  entertain  the  hope  of  a 
sufficiently  long  life  to  rebuild  his  fortune  if  once  completely  shat- 
tered ;  and  that  he  would  not  only  expose  himself  to  ruin,  but  also  to 
a  risk  much  more  to  be  dreaded — that  of  falling  into  the  grasp  of 
creditors.  Friends  and  relatives  joined  their  remonstrances  to  hers, 
but  could  not  shake  the  strong  resolve  of  his  energetic  mind.  He  had 
fully  matured  his  plan,  and  was  determined  to  sink  or  swim  with  it. 

Purchasing  a  quantity  of  canes  from  two  individuals  named  Men- 
dez  and  Solis,  who  cultivated  them  only  for  sale  as  a  dainty  in  the 
New  Orleans  market,  and  to  make  coarse  syrup,  he  began  to  plant  in 
1794,  and  to  make  all  the  other  necessary  preparation,  and  in  1795 
he  made  a  crop  of  sugar  which  sold  for  twelve  thousand  dollars — a 
large  sum  at  that  time.  Bore's  attempt  had  excited  the  keenest  inter- 
est ;  many  had  frequently  visited  him  during  the  year  to  witness  his 
preparations  ;  gloomy  predictions  had  been  set  afloat,  and  on  the  day 
when  the  grinding  of  the  cane  was  to  begin,  a  large  number  of  the 
most  respectable  inhabitants  had  gathered  in  and  about  the  sugar- 
house  to  be  present  at  the  failure  or  success  of  the  experiment.  Would 


42  HISTORICAL   SKETCHES. 

the  syrup  granulate  ?  would  it  be  converted  into  sugar  ?  The  crowd 
waited  with  eager  impatience  for  the  moment  when  the  man  who 
watches  the  coction  of  the  juice  of  the  cane  determines  whether  it 
is  ready  to  granulate.  When  that  moment  arrived  the  stillness  of 
death  came  among  them,  each  one  holding  his  breath,  and  feeling  that 
it  was  a  matter  of  ruin  or  prosperity  for  them  all.  Suddenly  the 
sugar-maker  cried  out  with  exultation,  "  It  granulates !  "  Inside  and 
outside  of  the  building  one  could  have  heard  the  wonderful  tidings  fly- 
ing from  mouth  to  mouth  and  dying  in  the  distance,  as  if  a  hundred 
glad  echoes  were  telling  it  to  one  another.  Each  one  of  the  bystanders 
pressed  forward  to  ascertain  the  fact  on  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses, 
and  when  it  could  no  longer  be  doubted,  there  came  a  shout  of  joy, 
and  all  flocked  around  Etienne  de  Bore,  overwhelming  him  with  con- 
gratulations, and  almost  hugging  the  man  whom  they  called  their 
savior — the  savior  of  Louisiana.  Ninety  years  have  elapsed  since,  and 
an  event  which  produced  so  much  excitement  at  the  time  is  very  nearly 
obliterated  from  the  memory  of  the  present  generation. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW   ORLEANS. 

[From  The  Creoles  of  Louisiana.     Copyright,  1884,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.] 
BY    GEORGE    W.    CABLE. 

[GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE  was  born  in  New  Orleans,  October  12,  1844.  During 
the  Civil  War  he  served  in  the  Confederate  Army  in  the  Fourth  Mississippi  Cavalry. 
His  early  literary  effusions  appeared  in  the  New  Orleans  Picayune  over  the  pen-name  of 
"Drop  Shot."  His  first  stories  of  "supposed"  Creole  life  were  published  in  Scrib- 
ner's Monthly,  and  were  so  well  received  by  Northern  critics  that  he  determined  to  fol- 
low the  profession  of  letters.  In  his  political  writings  he  has  proposed  certain  reforms 
in  the  convict  labor  system  of  the  Southern  States,  and  devised  plans  for  ameliorating 
the  condition  of  the  negro.  In  1879  he  removed  to  New  England,  where  he  has  since 
resided.  His  works  include  Old  Creole  Days  (1879-83)  ;  The  Orandissimes  (1880)  ; 
Madame  Delphine  (1881)  ;  Dr.  Sevier  (1883)  ;  The  Creoles  of  Louisiana  (1884)  ;  The 
Silent  South  (1885)  ;  Bonaventure  (1888)  ;  Strange  True  Stories  of  Louisiana  (1889)  ; 
The  Negro  Question  (1890)  ;  and  Life  of  William  Gilmore  Simms  (1890).  One  of  his 
critics  says  :  "  Mr.  Cable  has  a  marvellously  acute  ear,  a  sympathetic  heart,  an  eye  far 
from  myopic,  an  imagination  warm  and  plastic,  and  much  constructive  skill  ;  hence  he 
might  have  conveyed  his  impressions  of  Creole  life  without  coming  so  perilously  near  to 
caricaturing  it.  The  more's  the  pity  !  His  feeling  for  African  slaves,  octoroons,  quad- 
roons, ran  away  with  him,  and  led  him  into  by-ways  difficult  in  the  extreme  for  a 
foreigner  to  traverse.  For  Mr.  Cable — eminent  Creoles  claim — never  really  knew  any- 
thing about  Creole  life  from  the  inside.  .  .  .  Thus,  they  say,  Mr.  Cable  goes  all 
astray  about  the  voudous  and  the  use  of  the  charms  and  amulets,  and  about  Creole 
customs,  manners,  music,  and  cookery.  The  English,  too,  into  which  he  translates  this 
French  life  is  often  imperfect  and  ungrammatical,  full  as  it  is  of  blood,  of  pulse,  of  thrill 
and  throb  and  word-picture.''] 

ONCE  more  the  Creoles  sang  the  "Marseillaise."  The  invaders 
hovering  along  the  marshy  shores  of  Lake  Borgne  were  fourteen 
thousand  strong.  Sir  Edward  Packenham,*  brother-in-law  to  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  and  a  gallant  captain,  was  destined  to  lead  them. 
Gibbs,  Lambert,  and  Kean  were  his  generals  of  division.  As  to 
Jackson,  thirty-seven  hundred  Tennesseeans  under  Generals  Coffee  and 
Carroll,  had,  when  it  was  near  Christmas,  given  him  a  total  of  but  six 
thousand  men.  Yet  confidence,  animation,  concord,  and  even  gayety 
filled  the  hearts  of  the  mercurial  people. 

"  The  citizens,"  says  the  eye-witness,  Latour,  "  were  preparing  for 
battle  as  cheerfully  as  for  a  party  of  pleasure.  The  streets  resounded 
with  '  Yankee  Doodle,'  '  La  Marseillaise,'  '  Le  Chant  du  Depart,'  and 
other  martial  airs.  The  fair  sex  presented  themselves  at  the  windows 

*  [Spelled  PAKEXHAM  by  some  historians.] 


44  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

and  balconies  to  applaud  the  troops  going  through  their  evolutions, 
and  to  encourage  their  husbands,  sons,  fathers,  and  brothers  to  protect 
them  from  their  enemies. 

That  enemy,  reconnoitring  on  Lake  Borgne,  soon  found  in  the 
marshes  of  its  extreme  western  end  the  mouth  of  a  navigable  stream, 
the  Bayou  Bienvenue.  This  water  flowed  into  the  lake  directly  from 
the  west — the  direction  of  New  Orleans,  close  behind  whose  lower 
suburb  it  had  its  beginning  in  a  dense  cypress  swamp.  Within  its 
mouth  it  was  over  a  hundred  yards  wide,  and  more  than  six  feet  deep. 
As  they  ascended  its  waters,  everywhere,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
stretched  only  the  unbroken  quaking  prairie.  But  soon  they  found 
and  bribed  a  village  of  Spanish  and  Italian  fishermen,  and  under  their 
guidance  explored  the  whole  region.  By  turning  into  a  smaller  bayou, 
a  branch  of  the  first,  the  Mississippi  was  found  a  very  few  miles  away 
on  the  left,  hidden  from  view  by  a  narrow  belt  of  swamp,  and  hurry- 
ing southeastward  toward  the  Gulf.  From  the  plantations  of  sugar- 
cane on  its  border,  various  draining  canals  ran  back  northward  to  the 
bayou,  offering  on  their  margins  a  fair  though  narrow  walking  way 
through  the  wooded  and  vine-tangled  morass  to  the  open  plains  on  the 
river  shore,  just  below  New  Orleans.  By  some  oversight,  which  has 
never  been  explained,  this  easy  route  to  the  city's  very  outskirts  had 
been  left  unobstructed.  On  the  21st  of  December  some  Creole  scouts 
posted  a  picket  at  the  fishermen's  village. 

The  traveller  on  the  New  Orleans  and  Mobile  Eailroad,  as  he  enters 
the  southeastern  extreme  of  Louisiana,  gliding  along  the  low,  wet 
prairie  margin  of  the  Gulf,  passes  across  an  island  made  by  the  two 
mouths  of  Pearl  River.  It  rises  just  high  enough  above  the  surround- 
ing marsh  to  be  at  times  tolerably  dry  ground.  A  sportsmen's  station 
on  it  is  called  English  Look-out ;  but  the  island  itself  seems  to  have 
quite  lost  its  name.  It  was  known  then  as  Isle  aux  Poix  (Pea  Island). 
Here  on  December  the  21st,  1814,  the  British  had  been  for  days  dis- 
embarking. Early  on  the  22d  General  Kean's  division  reembarked 
from  this  island  in  barges,  shortly  before  dawn  of  the  23d  captured 
the  picket  at  the  fishers'  village,  pushed  on  up  the  bayou,  turned  to 
the  left,  southwestward,  into  the  smaller  bayou  (Mazant),  entered  the 
swamp,  disembarked  once  more  at  the  mouth  of  a  plantation  canal, 
inarched  southward  along  its  edge  through  the  wood,  and  a  little  before 
noon  emerged  upon  the  open  plain  of  the  river  shore,  scarcely  seven 
miles  from  New  Orleans,  without  a  foot  of  fortification  between  them 
and  the  city.  But  the  captured  pickets  had  reported  Jackson's  forces 
eighteen  thousand  strong,  and  the  British  halted,  greatly  fatigued, 
until  they  should  be  joined  by  other  divisions. 

Not,  however,  to  rest.     At  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.  45 

while  the  people  of  the  city  were  sitting  at  their  midday  dinner,  sud- 
denly the  cathedral  bell  startled  them  with  its  notes  of  alarm,  drums 
sounded  the  long-roll,  and  as  military  equipments  were  hurriedly  put 
on,  and  Creoles,  Americans,  and  San  Domingans,  swords  and  muskets 
in  hand,  poured  in  upon  the  Place  d'Armes  from  every  direction  and 
sought  their  places  in  the  ranks,  word  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth 
that  there  had  been  a  blunder,  and  that  the  enemy  was  but  seven 
miles  away  in  force — "  sur  Inhabitation  Villere  !  "  ("  on  Villere' s  plan- 
tation ! ")  But  courage  was  in  every  heart.  Quickly  the  lines  were 
formed,  the  standards  were  unfurled,  the  huzza  resounded  as  the  well- 
known  white  horse  of  Jackson  came  galloping  down  their  front  with 
his  staff — Edward  Livingston  and  Abner  Duncan  among  them — at  his 
heels,  the  drums  sounded  quickstep,  and  the  columns  moved  down 
through  the  streets  and  out  of  the  anxious  town  to  meet  the  foe.  In 
half  an  hour  after  the  note  of  alarm  the  Seventh  regulars,  with  two 
pieces  of  artillery  and  some  marines,  had  taken  an  advanced  position. 
An  hour  and  a  half  later  General  Coffee,  with  his  Tennessee  and  Mis- 
sissippi cavalry,  took  their  place  along  the  small  Kodriguez  Canal,  that 
ran  from  the  river's  levee  to  and  into  the  swamp,  and  which  afterward 
became  Jackson's  permanent  line  of  defence.  Just  as  the  sun  was 
setting,  the  troops  that  had  been  stationed  at  Bayou  St.  John,  a  battal- 
ion of  free  colored  men,  then  the  Forty-fourth  regulars,  and  then  the 
brightly  uniformed  Creole  battalion,  first  came  into  town  by  way  of 
the  old  Bayou  Road,  and  swept  through  the  streets  toward  the  enemy 
on  the  run,  glittering  with  accoutrements  and  arms,  under  the  thronged 
balconies  and  amid  the  tears  and  plaudits  of  Creole  mothers  and 
daughters. 

Xight  came  on,  very  dark.  The  Carolina  dropped  noiselessly  down 
opposite  the  British  camp,  anchored  close  in  shore,  and  opened  her 
broadsides  and  musketry  at  short  range.  A  moment  later  Jackson 
fell  upon  the  startled  foe  with  twelve  hundred  men  and  two  pieces  of 
artillery,  striking  them  first  near  the  river  shore,  and  presently  along 
their  whole  line.  Coffee,  with  six  hundred  men,  unseen  in  the  dark- 
ness, issued  from  the  woods  on  the  north,  and  attacked  the  British 
right,  just  as  it  was  trying  to  turn  Jackson's  left — Creole  troops,  whose 
ardor  would  have  led  them  to  charge  with  the  bayonet,  but  for  the 
prudence  of  the  Regular  officer  in  command.  A  fog  rose,  the  smoke 
of  battle  rested  on  the  field,  the  darkness  thickened,  and  all  was 
soon  in  confusion.  Companies  and  battalions — red  coats,  blue  coats, 
Highland  plaidies,  and  "dirty  shirts"  (Tennesseeans),  from  time 
to  time  got  lost,  fired  into  friendly  lines,  or  met  their  foes  in  hand- 
to-hand  encounters.  Out  in  the  distant  prairie  behind  the  swamp 
forest,  the  second  division  of  the  British  coming  on  heard  the  battle, 


46  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

hurried  forward,  and  began  to  reach  the  spot .  while  the  low 
plain,  wrapped  in  darkness,  was  still  flashing  with  the  discharge  of 
artillery. 

The  engagement  was  soon  over,  without  special  results  beyond 
that  prestige  which  we  may  be  confident  was,  at  the  moment,  Jackson's 
main  aim.  Before  day  he  fell  back  two  miles,  and  in  the  narrowest 
part  of  the  plain,  some  four  miles  from  town,  began  to  make  his  per- 
manent line  behind  Rodriguez  Canal. 

Inclement  weather  set  in,  increasing  the  hardships  of  friend  and  foe. 
The  British  toiled  incessantly  in  the  miry  ground  of  the  sugar-cane 
fields  to  bring  up  their  heavy  artillery,  and  both  sides  erected  breast- 
works and  batteries,  and  hurried  forward  their  reinforcements.  Skir- 
mishing was  frequent,  and  to  Jackson's  raw  levies  very  valuable.  Red- 
hot  shot  from  the  British  works  destroyed  the  Carolina;  but  her  arma- 
ment was  saved  and  made  a  shore  battery  on  the  farther  river  bank. 
On  New  Year's  day  a  few  bales  of  cotton,  forming  part  of  the  Ameri- 
can fortifications,  were  scattered  in  all  directions  and  set  on  fire,  and 
this  was  the  first  and  last  use  made  of  this  material  during  the  cam- 
paign. When  it  had  been  called  to  General  Jackson's  notice  that  this 
cotton  was  the  property  of  a  foreigner,  "  Give  him  a  gun  and  let  him 
defend  it,"  was  his  answer.  On  the  4th,  two  thousand  two  hundred 
and  fifty  Kentuckians,  poorly  clad  and  worse  armed,  arrived,  and  such 
as  bore  serviceable  weapons  raised  Jackson's  force  to  three  thousand 
two  hundred  men  on  his  main  line ;  a  line,  says  the  Duke  of  Saxe- 
Weimar,  "  the  very  feeblest  an  engineer  could  have  devised ;  that  is,  a 
straight  one." 

Yet  on  this  line  the  defenders  of  New  Orleans  were  about  to  be 
victorious.  It  consisted  of  half  a  mile  of  very  uneven  earthworks 
stretching  across  the  plain  along  the  inner  edge  of  the  canal,  from  the 
river  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  continuing  a  like  distance  into  the 
forest.  In  here  it  quickly  dwindled  to  a  mere  double  row  of  logs  two 
feet  apart,  filled  in  between  with  earth.  The  entire  artillery  on  this 
whole  line  was  twelve  pieces.  But  it  was  served  by  men  of  rare  skill, 
artillerists  of  the  regular  army,  the  sailors  of  the  burnt  Carolina,  some 
old  French  soldiers  under  Flaujeac,  one  of  Bonaparte's  gunners,  and 
Dominique  and  Beluche,  with  the  tried  cannoneers  of  their  pirate 
ships. 

From  battery  to  battery  the  rude  line  was  filled  out  with  a  droll 
confusion  of  arms  and  trappings,  men  and  dress.  Here  on  the  extreme 
right,  just  on  and  under  the  levee,  were  some  regular  infantry  and  a 
company  of  "  Orleans  Rifles,"  with  some  dragoons  who  served  a  how- 
itzer. Next  to  them  was  a  battalion  of  Louisiana  Creoles  in  gay  and 
varied  uniforms.  The  sailors  of  the  Carolina  were  grouped  around 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.  47 

the  battery  between.  In  the  Creoles'  midst  were  the  swarthy  priva- 
teers with  their  two  twenty-fours.  Then  came  a  battalion  of  native 
men  of  color,  another  bunch  of  sailors  around  a  thirty-two-pounder,  a 
battalion  of  St.  Domingan  mulattoes,  a  stretch  of  blue  for  some  regu- 
lar artillery  and  the  Forty-fourth  infantry,  then  Flaujeac  and  his 
Francs  behind  a  brass  twelve-pounder ;  next,  a  long  slender  line  of 
brown  homespun  hunting-shirts  that  draped  Carroll's  lank  Tennes- 
seeans,  then  a  small,  bright  bunch  of  marines,  then  some  more  regular 
artillery  behind  a  long  brass  culverine  and  a  six-pounder,  then  Adair's 
ragged  Kentuckians,  and  at  the  end,  Coffee's  Tennesseeans,  disappear- 
ing in  the  swamp,  where  they  stood  by  day  knee-deep  in  water,  and 
slept  at  night  in  the  mud. 

Wintry  rains  had  retarded  everything  in  the  British  camp ;  but  at 
length  Lambert's  division  came  up,  Packenham  took  command,  and 
plans  were  perfected  for  the  final  attack.  A  narrow  continuation  of 
the  canal  by  which  the  English  had  come  up  through  the  swamp  to 
its  head  at  the  rear  of  Yillere's  plantation  was  dug,  so  that  their 
boats  could  be  floated  up  to  the  river  front  close  under  the  back  of 
the  levee,  and  then  dragged  over  its  top  and  launched  into  the  river. 
The  squalid  negresses  that  fish  for  crawfish  along  its  rank,  flowery 
banks,  still  call  it  "  Cannal  Packm'am."  All  night  of  the  7th  of  Janu- 
ary there  came  to  the  alert  ears  of  the  Americans  across  the  interven- 
ing plain  a  noise  of  getting  boats  through  this  narrow  passage.  It 
was  evident  that  the  decisive  battle  was  impending.  Packenham' s 
intention  was  to  throw  a  considerable  part  of  his  force  across  the 
river  to  attack  the  effective  marine  battery  abreast  of  the  American 
line,  erected  there  by  Commodore  Paterson,  while  he,  on  the  hither 
shore,  unembarrassed  by  its  fire  on  his  flank,  should  fall  furiously 
upon  Jackson's  main  line,  in  three  perpendicular  columns. 

But  the  river  had  fallen.  Colonel  Thornton,  who  was  to  lead  the 
movement  on  the  farther  bank,  was  long  getting  his  boats  across  the 
levee.  The  current,  too,  was  far  swifter  than  it  had  seemed.  Eight 
priceless  hours  slipped  away,  and  only  a  third  of  the  intended  force 
crossed. 

A  little  before  daybreak  of  the  8th,  the  British  main  force  moved 
out  of  camp  and  spread  across  the  plain,  six  thousand  strong,  the 
Americans  in  front,  the  river  on  their  left,  and  the  swamp-forest  on 
their  right.  They  had  planned  to  begin  at  one  signal  the  three 
attacks  on  the  nearer  and  the  one  on  the  farther  shore.  The  air  was 
chilly  and  obscure.  A  mist  was  slowly  clearing  off  from  the  wet  and 
slippery  ground.  A  dead  silence  reigned ;  but  in  that  mist  and  silence 
their  enemy  was  waiting  for  them.  Presently  day  broke  and  rap- 
idly brightened,  the  mist  lifted  a  little,  and  the  red  lines  of  the  British 


48  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

were  fitfully  descried  from  the  American  works.  Outside  the  levee 
the  wide  river  and  farther  shore  were  quite  hidden  by  the  fog,  which 
now  and  then  floated  hitherward  over  the  land. 

Packenham  was  listening  for  the  attack  of  Colonel  Thornton 
on  the  opposite  bank,  that  was  to  relieve  his  main  assault  from 
the  cross-fire  of  Paterson's  marine  battery.  The  sun  rose ;  but  he 
heard  nothing.  He  waited  till  half -past  seven;  still  there  was  no 
sound. 

Meanwhile  the  Americans  lay  in  their  long  trench,  peering  over 
their  sorry  breastworks,  and  wondering  at  the  inaction.  But  at 
length  Packenham  could  wait  no  longer.  A  British  rocket  went  up 
near  the  swamp.  It  was  the  signal  for  attack.  A  single  cannon-shot 
answered  from  the  Americans,  and  the  artillery  on  both  sides  opened 
with  a  frightful  roar.  On  Jackson's  extreme  left,  some  black  troops 
of  the  British  force  made  a  feint  against  the  line  in  the  swamp,  and 
were  easily  repulsed.  On  his  right,  near  the  river,  the  enemy  charged 
in  solid  column,  impetuously,  upon  a  redoubt  just  in  advance  of  the 
line.  Twice  only  the  redoubt  could  reply,  and  the  British  were  over 
and  inside  and  pressing  on  to  scale  the  breastwork  behind.  Their 
brave  and  much-loved  Colonel  Rennie  was  leading  them.  But  on  the 
top  of  the  works  he  fell  dead  with  the  hurrah  on  his  lips,  and  they 
were  driven  back  and  out  of  the  redoubt  in  confusion. 

Meantime  the  main  attack  was  being  made  in  the  open  plain  near 
the  edge  of  the  swamp.  Some  four  hundred  yards  in  front  of  the 
American  works  lay  a  ditch.  Here  the  English  formed  in  close 
column  of  about  sixty  men  front.  They  should  have  laid  off  their 
heavy  knapsacks,  for  they  were  loaded  besides  with  big  fascines  of 
ripe  sugar-cane  for  filling  up  the  American  ditch,  and  with  scaling 
ladders.  But  with  muskets,  knapsacks  and  all,  they  gave  three  cheers 
and  advanced.  Before  them  went  a  shower  of  Congreve  rockets.  For 
a  time  they  were  partly  covered  by  an  arm  of  the  forest  and  by  the 
fog,  but  soon  they  emerged  from  both  and  moved  steadily  forward  in 
perfect  order,  literally  led  to  the  slaughter  in  the  brave  old  British 
way. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  asked  one  English  officer  of  another. 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know." 

"Then,"  said  the  first,  "you  have  got  into  what  I  call  a  good 
thing ;  a  far-famed  American  battery  is  in  front  of  you  at  a  short  range, 
and  on  the  left  of  this  spot  is  flanked,  at  eight  hundred  yards,  by  their 
batteries  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river." 

"  The  first  objects  we  saw,  enclosed  as  it  were  in  this  little  world 
of  mist,"  says  this  eye-witness,  "  were  the  cannon-balls  tearing  up  the 
ground  and  crossing  one  another,  and  bounding  along  like  so  many 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.  49 

cricket-balls  through  the  air,  coming  on  our  left  flank  from  the  Ameri- 
can batteries  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river,  and  also  from  their  lines 
in  front." 

The  musketry  fire  of  the  Americans,  as  well  as  the  artillery,  was 
given  with  terrible  precision.  Unhappily  for  the  English  they  had 
singled  out  for  their  attack  those  homely  clad  men  whom  they  had  nick- 
named the  "  Dirty  shirts  " — the  riflemen  of  Kentucky  and  Tennessee 
— Indian  fighters,  that  never  fired  but  on  a  selected  victim.  Flau- 
jeac's  battery  tore  out  whole  files  of  men.  Yet  the  brave  foe  came 
on,  veterans  from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  from  the  Spanish 
Peninsula,  firmly  and  measuredly,  and  a  few  platoons  had  even 
reached  the  canal,  when  the  column  faltered,  gave  way,  and  fled 
precipitately  back  to  the  ditch  where  it  had  first  formed. 

Here  there  was  a  rally.  The  knapsacks  were  taken  off.  Reen- 
forcements  came  up.  The  first  charge  had  been  a  dreadful  mistake 
in  its  lack  of  speed.  K"ow  the  start  was  quicker  and  in  less  order,  but 
again  in  the  fatal  columnar  form. 

"At  a  run,"  writes  the  participant  already  quoted,  "we  neared 
the  American  line.  The  mist  was  now  rapidly  clearing  away,  but, 
owing  to  the  dense  smoke,  we  could  not  at  first  distinguish  the  attack- 
ing column  of  the  British  troops  to  our  right.  .  .  .  The  echo  from 
the  cannonade  and  musketry  was  so  tremendous  in  the  forests  that 
the  vibration  seemed  as  if  the  earth  were  cracking  and  tumbling  to 
pieces.  .  .  .  The  flashes  of  fire  looked  as  if  coming  out  of  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  so  little  above  its  surface  were  the  batteries  of 
the  Americans.'' 

Packenham  led  the  van.  On  a  black  horse,  in  brilliant  uniform, 
waving  his  hat  and  cheering  the  onset,  he  was  a  mark  the  backwoods- 
men could  not  miss.  Soon  he  reeled  and  fell  from  his  horse  with  a 
mortal  wound;  Gibbs  followed  him.  Then  Kean  was  struck  and 
borne  from  the  field  with  many  others  of  high  rank,  and  the  column 
again  recoiled  and  fell  back,  finally  discomfited. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  scene  ? "  cried  one  of  Packenham's  staff. 
"  There  is' nothing  left  but  the  Seventh  and  Forty-third !  " 

"  They  fell,"  says  another  Englishman,  "  like  the  very  blades  of 
grass  beneath  the  scythe  of  the  mower.  Seventeen  hundred  and 
eighty-one  victims,  including  three  generals,  seven  colonels,  and  seventy- 
five  lesser  officers,  were  the  harvest  of  those  few  minutes." 

At  length  the  American  musketry  ceased.  Only  the  batteries 
were  answering  shot  for  shot,  when  from  the  further  side  of  the 
Mississippi  came,  all  too  late,  a  few  reports  of  cannon,  a  short,  brisk 
rattle  of  fire-arms,  a  hush,  and  three  British  cheers  to  tell  that  the 
few  raw  American  troops  on  that  side  had  been  overpowered,  and 
4 


50  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

that  Paterson's  battery,  prevented  from  defending  itself  by  the 
blundering  of  the  militia  in  its  front,  had  been  spiked  and  aban- 
doned. 

The  batteries  of  the  British  line  continued  to  fire  until  two  in  the 
afternoon ;  but  from  the  first  signal  of  the  morning  to  the  abandon- 
ment of  all  effort  to  storm  the  American  works  was  but  one  hour,  and 
the  battle  of  New  Orleans  was  over  at  half-past  eight.  General  Lam- 
bert reported  the  British  loss  two  thousand  and  seventeen ;  Jackson, 
the  American  at  six  killed  and  seven  wounded. 

From  the  9th  to  the  18th  four  British  vessels  bombarded  Fort  St. 
Philip  without  result ;  on  the  morning  of  the  19th,  the  British  camp 
in  front  of  Jackson  was  found  deserted,  and  eight  days  later  the  last 
of  the  enemies'  forces  embarked  from  the  shores  of  Lake  Borgne. 


THE  FESTIVITY  AFTER  THE  VICTORY. 

[From  Jackson  and  New  Orleans  (1858).] 
BY    ALEXANDER    WALKER. 

[ALEXANDER  WALKER  was  born  in  Fredericksburg,  Va.,  October  13,  1819.  Thence 
he  removed  to  New  Orleans,  where  he  divided  his  time  between  practising  law  and  writ- 
ing for  the  press.  He  was,  at  different  periods,  editor  of  many  local  newspapers, 
among  them  the  Picayune.  At  a  mature  age,  he  was  for  some  time  a  resident  of  Cin- 
cinnati, where  he  edited  the  Enquirer.  He  was,  for  a  term  or  so,  judge  of  the  City  Court 
of  New  Orleans,  and  in  1861  was  a  member  of  the  Secession  convention  of  Louisiana. 
He  published  Life  of  Andrew  Jackson  ;  Jackson  and  New  Orleans  (1858) ;  History  of 
the  Battle  of  Shiloh;  and  Sutler  at  New  Orleans.  He  was  a  lover  of  words  for  their 
own  sake,  and  in  building  up  his  sentences  was  ever  ready  to  sacrifice  economy  to 
euphony.  In  writing  history,  the  most  trivial  detail  received  his  consideration.  He 
died  January  24,  1893.] 

THE  first  display  of  popular  feeling  [after  the  battle  of  New 
Orleans]  was  too  wild  to  be  controlled  by  any  regular  method  or 
system.  At  Jackson's  request  the  Abbe  Dubourg,  Apostolic  Prefect 
of  the  State  of  Louisiana,  appointed  the  23d  as  a  day  of  public 
thanksgiving  to  the  Almighty,  for  his  signal  interposition  in  behalf 
of  the  safety  and  honor  of  the  country.  That  day  was  ushered  in  by 
a  discharge  of  artillery,  which  caused  many  a  citizen  and  soldier  to 
leap  from  his  pleasant  couch,  under  the  delusion  that  it  was  all  a 
dream,  that  his  toil  was  over  and  the  enemy  had  really  departed. 
New  Orleans,  never  before  or  since,  exhibited  so  gay  and  happy  a 
scene,  as  on  that  bright  23d  of  January,  1815.  All  the  contentions, 
horrors,  sufferings,  and  troubles  of  the  war  were  forgotten,  and  a 
spirit  of  unrestrained  happiness,  of  cordial  harmony  and  good-will, 
pervaded  the  whole  population.  .  .  . 

The  old  cathedral  was  burnished  up  for  the  occasion.  Evergreens 
decorated  the  entrance  and  the  interior.  The  Public  Square,  or  Plaza, 
blazed  with  beauty,  splendor,  and  elegance.  In  its  centre  stood  a 
graceful  triumphal  arch,  supported  by  six  Corinthian  columns,  and 
festooned  with  evergreens  and  flowers.  Beneath  the  arch  stood  two 
young  children  on  pedestals,  holding  .a  laurel  wreath,  whilst  near 
them,  as  if  their  guardian  angels,  was  a  bright  damsel  representing 
Liberty,  and  a  more  sedate  one  personifying  Justice.  From  the  arch 
to  the  entrance  of  the  cathedral  the  loveliest  girls  of  the  city  had  been 
ranged  in  two  rows,  to  represent  the  various  States  and  Territories. 


52  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

They  were  dressed  in  pure  white,  with  blue  veils  and  silver  stars  on 
their  brows.  Each  bore  a  small  flag,  inscribed  with  the  name  of  the 
State  she  represented,  and  a  small  basket  trimmed  with  blue  ribands 
and  full  of  flowers.  Behind  each  a  shield  and  lance  were  stuck  in  the 
ground,  with  the  name,  motto  and  seal  of  each  of  the  States.  The 
shields  Avere  linked  together  with  verdant  festoons,  which  extended 
from  the  arch  to  the  door  of  the  cathedral. 

Precisely  at  the  appointed  time,  General  Jackson  appeared  with 
his  staff  at  the  gate  of  the  plaza  fronting  the  river.  He  was  received 
with  salvos  of  artillery.  Entering  the  square,  he  was  conducted  to 
the  arch,  where  the  two  little  girls,  reaching  forward  with  blushing, 
smiling  faces,  placed  the  laurel  wreath  on  his  brow.  What  a  benign 
smile  relieved  the  sternness  of  that  heroic  countenance,  when  the  inno- 
cent faces  of  the  pretty  little  ones  arose  to  his  view,  as  with  so  much 
pride  and  delight  they  performed  the  high  task  assigned  to  them! 
Who  would  not  be  stern  and  heroic  in  defence  of  those  dear  ones  ( 
Who  would  not  incur  every  peril,  as  -well  against  the  jealousy  and  dis- 
content of  friends,  as  against  the  open  hostilities  of  foes,  in  such  a 
cause  ? 

Such  were,  no  doubt,  the  reflections  that  passed  through  a  mind, 
which  combined  in  an  extraordinary  degree  the  strong  and  tender 
traits  of  humanity.  And  now,  with  the  laurel  on  his  brow,  amid  the 
enthusiastic  shouts  of  the  people,  he  descends  the  stairs  of  the  arch, 
and  is  met  by  a  lovely  young  lady,  radiant  with  all  the  charms  of 
Creole  beauty — with  face,  form,  manners,  and  expression,  such  as  the 
most  aspiring  artist  might  have  dreamed  of  as  the  model  for  his  Venus. 
Fit  representative  of  Louisiana,  this  beautiful  damsel  addresses  the 
laureled  chief  in  a  speech  glowing  with  gratitude  and  eloquence.  All 
the  rigor  has  faded  from  that  stern  countenance,  and  the  victorious 
General  humbles  himself  at  the  shrine  of  female  beauty  and  innocence, 
and  replies,  in  words  that  thrill  with  emotion,  that  his  merits  have 
been  exalted  far,  far  above  their  real  worth.  But  the  modest  confes- 
sion is  drowned  by  a  shower  of  flowers,  amid  which,  the  Hero,  sup- 
ported by  his  staff,  is  led  to  the  entrance  of  the  cathedral.  Here  he 
is  met  by  the  patriotic  and  revered  Abbe  Dubourg,  clad  in  pontifical 
robes  and  supported  by  a  college  of  priests.  The  reverend  gentleman 
addresses  him  in  a  speech  of  more  than  ordinary  eloquence,  in  which, 
Avhilst  due  praise  is  accorded  to  the  Hero,  the  ascription  of  the  higher 
glory  is  given  to  that  Divine  Source  of  all  wisdom  and  goodness,  by 
whose  inspiration  and  influence  those  signal  services  were  directed  to 
the  salvation  of  the  country  and  the  confusion  and  defeat  of  her 
enemies.  Jackson  replies  briefly,  tastefully,  and  modestly.  He  is 
then  conducted  into  the  cathedral  and  escorted  to  a  conspicuous  seat 


THE  FESTIVITY  AFTER    THE    VICTORY.  53 

near  the  altar.  Te  Deictn  is  then  chanted  in  the  grand  and  impres- 
sive manner  in  which  that  melodious  outburst  of  gratitude  is  usually 
rendered  by  the  choirs  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  The  people 
join  in  the  noble  hymn.  The  gallant  battalion  d'Orleans  guards  the 
entrance  of  the  cathedral  and  fills  the  aisles.  The  war-worn  counte- 
nances of  the  young  Creoles  next  to  the  person  of  the  General,  are 
objects  of  warmest  regard  to  the  hundreds  of  mothers,  wives,  sisters 
and  lovers,  who  crowd  the  interior  of  the  cathedral  on  this  joyful 
occasion. 

The  ceremony  being  concluded,  Jackson  retired  to  his  quarters. 
That  night  the  whole  city  was  illuminated.  At  last,  the  people, 
wearied  by  the  Avild  enthusiasm  and  inexhaustible  joyfulness  of  the 
great  event,  sunk  into  slumbers  that  were  no  longer  disturbed  by 
dreams  of  sack,  ruin,  bloodshed,  and  devastation.  And  so  concluded 
the  triumphal  festivity  of  New  Orleans,  which  had  been  so  miracu- 
lously saved  from  dishonor  and  destruction. 


THE  NEW   OKLEANS  BENCH  AND  BAK  IN   1823. 

[From  Harper's  Magazine.     Copyright,  1888,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.] 
BY   CHARLES    GAYABEE. 

FOE  a  long  while  [in  Louisiana]  it  was  almost  of  absolute  necessity 
that  the  judges  should  understand  both  the  English  and  French  lan- 
guages ;  and  in  consequence  of  the  motley  composition  of  our  cosmopo- 
lite population,  there  was  in  every  court  a  permanently  appointed 
interpreter,  who,  as  a  sworn  and  regular  officer  thereof,  translated  the 
evidence,  the  testimony  of  the  witnesses,  and,  when  necessary,  the 
charges  of  the  judge  to  the  jurors.  Our  jurisprudence  was  based  on 
the  laws  of  Spain  and  on  the  Napoleon  Code,  which  had  been  adopted 
by  our  Legislature  with  such  modifications  as  had  been  thought  advis- 
able. The  commentaries  of  French  and  Spanish  jurists,  with  decis- 
ions of  the  tribunals  of  the  two  countries  of  which  Louisiana  had 
successively  been  the  colony,  were  daily  and  extensively  quoted  as 
authorities.  The  juries  being  composed  of  men  some  of  whom  did  not 
understand  one  word  of  French,  and  others  equally  as  ignorant  of  the 
English,  it  became  imperative  on  litigants  to  employ  in  each  case  on 
both  sides  two  lawyers,  one  speaking  French,  the  other  English,  and 
supposed  to  command  individually  the  sympathies  of  that  portion  of 
the  population  to  which  they  belonged.  Under  such  circumstances 
and  exigencies  the  trial  of  cases  was  necessarily  long  and  expensive. 
The  petitions  and  answers,  the  citations,  and  all  writs  whatever,  were 
usually  in  both  languages ;  and  the  records  containing  the  testimony 
of  witnesses,  and  original  documents  with  their  indispensable  trans- 
lations, were  oppressively  voluminous. 

Will  the  reader  accompany  me  to  one  of  the  district  courts  of  the 
old  regime ;,  and  witness  some  of  the  judicial  proceedings  of  the  epoch  ( 
The  presiding  judge  is  Joshua  Lewis,  a  high-minded  gentleman,  if  not 
a  profound  jurist,  who  commands  universal  esteem  in  the  community 
where  he  has  come  to  reside.  As  irreproachable  in  his  private  as  in 
his  public  life,  Judge  Lewis  was  born  in  Kentucky,  and  did  honor 
both  to  his  native  and  to  his  adopted  State.  When  the  British  in- 
vaded Louisiana  he  hastened  to  descend  from  the  bench,  shouldered 
his  rifle,  and  bravely  met  them  on  the  plains  of  Chalmette.  Asso- 
ciating much  with  the  ancient  population,  he  had  learned  but  a  little 


THE  NEW  ORLEANS  BENCH  AND  BAR  IN  1823.  55 

of  their  language,  sufficient,  however,  to  state  in  a  few  Avords,  clearly 
if  not  grammatically,  to  a  jury  who  understood  only  French,  what 
law  was  applicable  to  the  case  on  which  they  were  to  decide. 

The  lawyers  retained  in  the  case  to  be  tried  are  Alfred  llennen  for 
the  plaintiff,  an  Anglo-Saxon  American,  and  Etienne  Mazureau  for  the 
defendant,  a  French  Creole.  Hennen  is  from  Xew  England.  He  is 
a  tall,  well-formed,  massive  man,  with  a  handsome,  benevolent  face, 
glowing  with  the  warm  tints  of  a  florid  complexion,  which  denotes 
his  Northern  origin.  He  is  invincibly  self-possessed,  and  no  provoca- 
tion can  throw  him  off  his  guard  in  his  fortress  of  cold  and  passionless 
reserve.  Nothing  can  ruffle  his  temper ;  and  if  the  attempt  is  made 
he  turns  it  off  with  a  good-natured  laugh,  which  blunts  the  edge  of 
his  adversary's  weapon.  He  is  an  erudite,  but  plain,  dry,  plodding, 
practical  lawyer,  who  never  aims  at  any  fancy  flight  of  eloquence. 
He  has  a  large  and  well-furnished  library,  which  he  liberally  puts  at 
the  disposal  of  his  friends.  He  is  laboriously  industrious,  and  always 
comes  into  court  with  a  long  string  of  authorities,  which  he  uses  as  a 
lasso  to  throw  round  the  neck  of  his  opponent.  He  is  not  much 
addicted  to  urge  upon  the  court  argumentative  deductions  from  the 
broad  principles  of  jurisprudence,  but  prefers  relying  on  an  over- 
whelming avalanche  of  precedents  and  numerous  decisions,  gathered 
from  far  and  wide,  in  cases  which  he  deems  similar  to  his  own.  His 
fees  amount  to  a  large  income,  of  which  he  takes  thrifty  care,  although 
he  lives  according  to  the  exigencies  of  his  social  position.  He  is  a 
conspicuous  and  worthy  member  of  the  Presbyterian  Church.  He  is 
abstemious  in  his  habits,  very  fond  of  exercise  on  horseback  and  on 
foot,  and  a  strict  observer  of  the  rules  and  prescriptions  of  hygiene. 
Like  all  members  of  the  legal  profession  from  the  other  States  of  the 
Union,  he  much  prefers  the  common  to  the  civil  law,  the  latter  being 
looked  upon  by  them  as  an  abortive  creation  of  the  Latin  mind,  which 
they  hold,  of  course,  to  be  naturally  inferior  to  the  Anglo-Saxon 
intellect. 

The  lawyer  on  the  other  side  is  Etienne  Mazureau,  a  native  of 
France,  who  has  emigrated  to  Louisiana  in  search  of  a  better  fortune, 
and  who  in  a  few  years  has  risen  to  be  one  of  the  magnates  of  the 
New  Orleans  bar.  Of  a  medium  size,  compactly  built,  with  flashing 
dark  eyes,  intensely  black  hair,  and  a  brown  complexion,  he  is  a  per- 
fect specimen  of  the  Southern  type,  as  if  to  the  manner  and  to  the 
manor  born.  He  is  of  an  ardent  temperament,  and  the  sacred  tire  of 
the  orator  glows  in  his  breast.  He  is  an  adroit  and  most  powerful 
logician,  but  on  certain  occasions  his  eloquence  becomes  tempestuous. 
He  delights  in  all  the  studies  appertaining  to  his  profession,  and  pos- 
sesses a  most  extensive  and  profound  knowledge  of  the  civil  law,  from 


56  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

the  twelve  tables  of  Eome  and  the  Institutes  of  Justinian  to  the 
Napoleon  Code.  He  is  also  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  Spanish 
jurisprudence,  which  is  derived  from  the  same  source.  He  is  deeply 
versed  in  the  common  law,  which,  however,  when  the  opportunity 
presents  itself,  it  is  his  special  pleasure  to  ridicule  and  treat  with  spite- 
ful depreciation.  He  is  not  free  from  a  certain  degree  of  arrogance, 
based  on  the  consciousness  he  has  of  his  learning  and  of  the  superiority 
of  his  splendid  intellectual  powers.  When  irritated  by  what  he  thinks 
futile  contradiction,  he  has  a  provoking  way  of  throwing  back  his 
head,  and  of  superciliously  lifting  at  a  right  angle  with  surrounding 
objects  a  nose  whose  nostrils  dilate  with  contempt.  He  is  particularly 
elated  when  in  his  forensic  conflicts  he  triumphs  over  an  Anglo-Saxon 
member  of  the  bar  to  whom  he  happens  to  have  taken  a  special  dislike. 
His  voice  is  superb,  now  calmly  argumentative,  now  tremulous  with 
passion,  and  frequently  derisive,  with  sneers  and  sarcasms  as  sharply 
pointed  as  the  savagest  arrow.  Aggressive  by  nature,  he  sometimes 
affects  the  most  dulcet  tones  of  conciliatory  placidity,  and  when  he 
thus  transforms  himself  he  is  more  to  be  dreaded  than  when  he  is 
apparently  in  one  of  his  fiercest  moods.  He  is  a  terror  to  the  wit- 
nesses of  the  adverse  party,  whom  he  likes  to  browbeat  and  to  keep 
broiling  on  the  gridiron  of  his  torturing  inquisition.  His  invectives, 
when  prompted  by  indignation,  wrath,  or  any  other  cause  of  excite- 
ment, are  a  sort  of  tropical  hurricane.  He  is  too  proud  and  lofty  to 
ever  have  recourse  to  the  petty  trickeries  and  snap  judgments  of  the 
minnows  of  his  noble  profession,  and  never  takes  any  undue  and  un- 
gentlemanly  advantage  of  his  brethren  at  law.  He  is  equally  great 
and  successful  in  civil  and  criminal  cases.  Hence  his  income  is  very 
large ;  but  he  has  a  peculiar  knack  at  getting  into  debt  and  parting 
with  his  money  in  the  most  unaccountable  manner.  He  has  this 
characteristic  in  common  with  many  men  of  splendid  abilities,  through 
whose  pockets  silver  and  gold  run  as  through  a  sieve,  much  to  the 
mortification  of  their  creditors. 

These  were  the  two  men  pitted  against  each  other  in  the  case  to 
which  we  call  the  attention  of  the  reader.  The  plaintiff  had  bought  a 
tract  of  land  measuring,  as  stated  in  the  act  of  sale,  twenty  arpents, 
fronting  the  Mississippi,  and  running  on  that  line  from  an  oak  on  the 
lower  limit  to  a  willow  on  the  upper  one.  After  the  completion  of 
the  sale  and  payment  of  the  price,  it  was  discovered  that  the  front  of 
the  tract  measured  twenty-five  arpents  instead  of  twenty.  The  pur- 
chaser claimed  these  twenty-five  arpents,  but  the  defendant  was  will- 
ing to  surrender  only  twenty.  Hence  the  suit  brought  by  the  plaintiff 
to  be  put  in  possession  of  what  he  claimed  to  have  bought  and  paid 
for,  and  therefore  his  property. 


THE  NEW  ORLEANS  BENCH  AND  BAR  IN  1823.  57 

Hennen  had  made  himself  acquainted  with  the  French  language, 
and  Mazureau  spoke  English  with  great  fluency,  so  that,  contrary  to 
what  habitually  took  place,  there  was  but  one  lawyer  employed  on 
either  side. 

"  Oyez !  oyez !  The  honorable  First  District  Court  of  the  State 
of  Louisiana  is  in  session  !  "  cries  the  sheriff  in  a  loud  and  clear  voice. 
"  Gentlemen .  of  the  jury  summoned  in  this  case,"  says  the  clerk, 
"please  answer  to  your  names."  After  this  is  clone,  the  jurors  are 
called  to  the  sacred  book. 

Here  a  struggle  ensues  between  the  two  lawyers  about  the  com- 
position of  the  jury.  Hennen  challenges  as  many  of  the  Creoles  and 
naturalized  French  as  he  can,  and  Mazureau  does  the  same  with  the 
Americans.  At  last  the  jury  is  formed — nine  of  the  Latin  race,  and 
three  of  the  Anglo-Saxon.  On  Mazureau's  lips  may  be  seen  a  smile 
of  satisfaction.  Hennen  has  a  troubled  look.  Let  us  give  a  little  of 
our  attention  to  the  manner  in  which  that  jury  had  been  sworn. 

Clerk  to  the  first  juror :  "  You  swear  that  "- 

First  Juror :  "  Je  n'entends  pas.  Parlez  franyais"  (I  don't 
understand.  Speak  French.) 

Clerk :  "  All  right." 

And  the  oath  is  administered  in  French. 

Second  juror  approaches  to  qualify. 

Clerk:  "  Vomjurezque"- 

Second  Juror :  "  I  don't  understand.     Speak  English." 

Clerk:  "  All  right." 

And  the  second  juror,  duly  sworn  in  his  vernacular,  takes  his  seat ; 
and  so  on  to  the  last  of  the  twelve,  each  one  insisting  on  being 
addressed  in  his  own  maternal  tongue. 

Judge :  "  Mr.  Augustin  Macarty,  I  appoint  you  foreman  of  this 
jury." 

On  hearing  which,  Mazureau  allows  again  an  expression  of  ap- 
proval to  beam  all  over  his  face.  Macarty  is  of  an  ancient  and  high- 
toned  family.  He  has  served  several  years  as  mayor  of  the  city,  and 
is  uncompromisingly  conservative  in  all  his  views  and  feelings — the 
very  embodiment  of  the  old  regime.  It  was  he  who,  in  his  official 
capacity,  as  reported,  and  backed  by  public  opinion,  had  caused  the 
first  cargo  of  ice  brought  to  New  Orleans  to  be  thrown  into  the  river 
as  a  measure  of  public  safety,  because  cold  drinks  in  the  summer  would 
affect  throats  and  lungs,  and  would  make  consumptive  the  whole  popu- 
lation. He  might  have  added,  perhaps  with  more  propriety,  that 
liquor  refrigerated  by  ice  might  become  more  tempting,  more  provoca- 
tive of  thirst,  and  that  the  sweet  indulgence  might  lead  to  a  habit 
injurious  to  health.  Be  it  as  it  may,  we  will  venture  to  say  something 


58  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

in  support  of  the  objection  of  dear  old  Macarty  to  the  introduction  of 
this  new  crystallized  luxury.  Are  we  sure  that  he  was  as  absurdly 
ridiculous  as  some  people  may  think,  when  we  recollect  that  consump- 
tion, now  so  common  among  us,  was  almost  unknown  before  the  arrival 
of  that  ill-fated  ship  with  its  load  of  hyperborean  product,  which  was 
soon  succeeded  by  more  welcome  importations  of  the  same  kind  ?  But 
let  us  return  to  the  trial. 

Hennen  rises,  and  after  a  slight  bow  to  the  court  and  jury,  reads 
to  them  the  petition  and  answer,  written  in  English  and  French  as 
required.  Then  he  says :  "  This  case,  as  your  honor  sees,  is  founded 
on  Article  2495  of  the  Civil  Code,  which  reads  as  follows : 

" '  There  can  be  neither  increase  nor  diminution  of  price  on  account 
of  disagreement  in  measure  when  the  object  is  designated  by  the  adjoin- 
ing tenements  and  sold  from  boundary  to  boimdary? 

"  This  is  the  law  on  which  is  based  the  claim  of  my  client.  As  to 
the  facts  alleged  in  the  plaintiff's  petition,  they  are  admitted  by  the 
defendant,  who  demands  five  thousand  dollars  more  for  the  five 
arpents  fronting  the  river,  with  the  usual  depth  of  forty  arpents ;  but 
he  is  not  entitled  to  that  increase  of  price,  considering  that  the  extent 
on  the  front  line  was  designated  by  an  oak  and  a  willow  that  clearly 
marked  the  boundaries  of  the  tract.  If  there  were  between  these 
designated  limits  only  fifteen  arpents  instead  of  twenty,  the  purchaser, 
my  client,  would  be  entitled  to  no  diminution  of  the  price  to  be  paid 
by  him,  and  on  the  same  principle,  when  there  are  twenty-five  arpents 
instead  of  twenty,  the  defendant  cannot  claim  an  increase  of  the  sum 
for  which  the  sale  has  been  effected.  This  is  made  so  plain  by  the 
words  of  the  article  of  the  Civil  Code  cited  by  me  that  I  cannot  con- 
ceive the  object  of  the  defendant  in  incurring  the  expenses  of  this 
litigation.  He  cannot  but  know  that  the  verdict  of  this  jury,  con- 
firmed by  your  honor,  will  be  against  him,  and  probably  he  only  aims, 
for  some  purpose  which  I  cannot  imagine,  at  retaining  possession  as 
long  as  he  can  of  the  property  for  which  he  has  received  the  stipulated 
price." 

Then  turning  to  the  jury,  he  said :  "  Gentlemen,  as  the  facts  in 
this  case  are  admitted,  I  have  no  evidence  to  introduce.  It  now 
becomes  your  duty  to  apply  the  law  to  those  facts,  and  its  text  is  so 
plain  that  its  meaning  cannot  be  a  matter  of  doubt  in  anybody's 
mind." 

During  this  address,  which  we  summarily  reproduce,  the  French 
and  Creole  members  of  the  jury  had  been  showing  signs  of  impatience, 
and  it  ended  in  this  interrogation  from  Foreman  Macarty :  "  Mr. 
Hennen,  do  you  really  presume  to  induce  us  to  grant  twenty-five 
arpents  to  your  client  when  the  act  of  sale  only  says  twenty  ? " 


THE  NEW  ORLEANS  BENCH  AND  BAR  IN  1823.  59 

Hennen  :  "  The  words  of  the  contract  are  that  the  plaintiff-  bought 
a  tract  of  land  of  twenty  arpents,  with  the  usual  depth,  extending,  on 
the  line  fronting  the  river,  from  a  certain  oak  to  a  certain  willow  that 
indicated  the  boundaries.  As  to  the  law,  it  says  that  the  designation 
of  visible  limits,  and  not  the  specification  of  the  number  of  arpents 
mentioned,  is  the  criterion  to  ascertain  the  area  of  the  land  intended 
to  be  transferred  by  the  seller  to  the  purchaser." 

Foreman  Macarty,  after  having  exchanged,  in  a  whisper,  a  few 
hasty  words  with  his  French  colleagues,  takes  a  square  attitude  in  his 
seat,  with  all  the  indications  of  a  man  who  is  going  to  assert  an  irrev- 
ocable decision.  He  fixes  a  steady  eye  on  Hennen,  and  says,  in  a 
peremptory  tone : 

"  Mr.  Hennen,  we  are  satisfied  that  the  defendant  never  intended  to 
sell,  nor  the  plaintiff  to  buy,  more  than  twenty  arpents  fronting  the 
river.  We  don't  care  for  your  oak  and  your  willow.  It  is  useless  for 
you  to  trouble  us  with  such  a  preposterous  claim.  Your  client  is  not 
honest,  sir.  It  is  wrong  on  his  part  to  try  to  avail  himself  of  an  evi- 
dent mistake  of  the  defendant  as  to  the  quantity  of  land  he  thought 
he  was  selling.  He  certainly  would  have  asked  a  larger  sum  if  he  had 
not  been  deceived  on  the  subject.  We  are  indignant,  sir ! " 

Hennen,  blandly :  "  I  regret,  Mr.  Macarty,  your  misconception  of 
the  case.  Allow  me  to  say  to  you  that  I  regret  it  for  the  sake  of  the 
two  parties  to  this  suit.  If  you  persist  in  your  views,  if  a  verdict  is 
rendered  against  the  plaintiff,  I  will  certainly  appeal  to  the  Supreme 
Court,  who  will  reverse  it.  Meanwhile  you  will  have  done  an  injury 
to  my  client,  whose  taking  possession  of  the  land  he  has  paid  for  will 
be  delayed  to  his  detriment,  and  by  the  prolongation  of  this  litigation 
you  will  be  the  cause  of  inflicting  on  the  defendant  heavier  costs  than 
he  would  otherwise  have  had  to  pay.  I  beg  the  Court  to  instruct  the 
jury  as  to  the  law  which  is  to  govern  their  final  decision." 

Judge :  "  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  Mr.  Hennen  has  correctly  quoted 
the  law  to  you.  Your  duty  is  to  enforce  its  application  in  accordance 
with  the  legislative  will,  and  not  to  suit  your  own  individual  notions 
of  the  just  or  unjust." 

Macarty :  "  We  beg  leave  to  remain  mindful  of  a  higher  law  than 
the  one  which  we  are  desired  to  enforce,  a  law  implanted  in  our  hearts 
by  God  himself — the  law  of  honesty,  the  law  of  conscience." 

Judge :  "  I  feel  bound  to  tell  you  that  I  believe  the  Supreme  Court 
will  not  sanction  your  views,  and  will  probably  reverse  your  verdict." 

Macarty :  "  That  is  the  affair  of  the  Supreme  Court.  Ours  is  to  act 
according  to  our  conscience." 

This  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in  French.  All  the  while 
the  three  Anglo-Saxon  members  of  the  jury  looked  vacantly  at  every 


60  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

object  in  the  court-room,  and  probably  were  wondering  at  the  cause 
and  meaning  of  all  this  hubbub.  As  to  Mazureau,  he  seemed  to  be  in 
a  satisfactory  condition  of  mind,  and  had  been  repeatedly  giving  nods 
of  approbation  whenever  Macarty  spoke.  Raising  his  spectacles  high 
up  on  his  forehead  above  his  brows,  which  with  him  was  known  to  be 
a  sign  that  he  considered  his  work  done,  and  that  he  could  rest  con- 
tented, he  had  thrown  himself  back  on  his  chair,  which  he  caused  to 
tilt  on  its  hind  legs,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  was  keenly  enjoying 
his  adversary's  prompt  defeat,  when  it  had  not  been  necessary  for  him 
even  to  utter  a  single  word  to  bring  about  this  result. 

But  Hennen  was  not  a  man  to  be  easily  discouraged,  and  getting  a 
little  more  animated  than  was  his  habit,  he  said :  "  Gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  allow  me,  under  the  pleasure  of  the  Court,  to  state  to  you  respect- 
fully that  it  is  the  conscience  of  the  law  that  you  are  bound  to  consult 
here,  and  not  your  self-assumed  notions  of  right  and  wrong,  or  what 
you  call  your  conscience,  in  administering  justice  in  the  courts  of  your 
country  in  conformity  with  the  obligations  of  the  solemn  oath  which 
you  have  taken.  There  is  not  a  lawyer  at  the  bar  who  will  not  tell 
you  that  this  is  the  correct  doctrine  to  be  adopted  by  you  in  the  dis- 
charge of  your  duties  as  jurors.  I  even  appeal  on  this  point  to  the 
eloquent  orator,  to  the  profound  jurist,  to  whom  we  all  look  as  a  safe 
guide  in  all  matters  of  law.  I  appeal  to  Mr.  Mazureau  himself,  who 
appears  here  for  the  defendant." 

A  sneering  expression  of  cynical  triumph  which  had  spread  over 
Mazureau' s  face  immediately  vanished ;  he  put  on  an  air  of  sympa- 
thetic compassion  for  the  embarrassment  in  which  his  opponent  found 
himself,  and  in  that  ominously  most  dulcet  tone  of  voice  which  he 
sometimes  assumed,  and  which  was  generally  indicative  of  the  forth- 
coming of  some  fatal  thrust,  he  said :  "  Mr.  Hennen,  will  you  permit 
me  to  address  you  one  question  ? " 

Hennen :  "  Certainly,  sir ;  at  your  pleasure." 

Mazureau :  "  Are  you  not  from  New  England  ? " 

Hennen :  "  Yes,  sir." 

Mazureau  :  "  "Well,  in  that  land  of  your  nativity,  was  it  not  lawful 
to  burn  old  women  as  witches  ? " 

Hennen,  looking  somewhat  perplexed,  stammered  out :  "  It  occasion- 
ally happened — in  former  times." 

Mazureau  sprang  up  with  flashing  eyes,  shaking  his  fist  dramati- 
cally at  Hennen,  and  with  a  loud  burst  of  his  sonorous  voice  he  thun- 
dered out :  "  Would  you  have  executed  that  law  ?  "Would  you  have 
burned  old  women  at  the  stake  ?  Would  you  have  lighted  up  the  fire  I 
Which  of  the  two  authorities  would  you  have  obeyed  on  that  occasion 
— that  conscience  which  God  has  placed  in  your  heart,  or  the  fanatical 


THE  NEW  ORLEANS  BENCH  AND  BAR  IN  1823.  61 

dictate  of  an  impious  legislation  ?  I  will  not  insult  you  by  doubting 
your  choice.  And  now  how  is  it  that  you  expect  these  high-minded 
men,  these  intelligent  jurors,  to  do  what  you  would  not  yourself  have 
done  ?  Why  should  they  not  in  these  days  follow  the  example  which 
you  would  have  given  them  in  former  times,  which  is,  to  trample  upon 
any  immoral  and  nefarious  law  that  violates  the  most  sacred  feelings 
of  conscience  and  the  principles  of  common  justice  between  man  and 
man  ? " 

He  paused,  as  if  to  take  breath  and  allow  his  emotion  to  subside. 
Then,  with  calm  dignity  :  "  May  it  please  the  Court,  I  have  no  more 
to  say.  The  case  is  closed  on  my  part."  And  he  looked  significantly 
at  the  French  and  Creole  members  of  the  jury,  who  could  hardly 
refrain  from  loudly  expressing  their  applause. 

Hennen  stood  bewildered  for  a  minute  or  two,  but  recovering  him- 
self, he  said :  "  May  it  please  the  Court,  I  have  only  a  few  words  to 
address  to  those  members  of  the  jury  who  do  not  understand  French." 
After  this  had  been  done,  a  short  charge  was  delivered  by  the  judge 
in  English  and  in  French,  and  the  jury  retired  to  their  room.  Every- 
body present  thought  that  they  could  not  possibly  agree. 

In  their  chamber,  as  soon  as  they  entered  it,  the  jurors  of  the  Latin 
race  grouped  themselves  in  a  corner,  talking  excitedly,  and  looking 
doggedly  determined  not  to  yield  an  inch  to  the  Yankees,  who  had 
sought  the  opposite  corner,  and  were  whispering  together.  This  is 
what  one  of  those  Yankees  said  to  his  colleagues :  "  I  cannot  stay  here 
long.  I  have  most  pressing  business  to  attend  to,  and  you  also,  I  pre- 
sume." There  was  an  assenting  movement  of  the  head  from  those 
Avho  were  thus  addressed.  "  Well,"  continued  he,  "  this  is  a  plain  case. 
There  should  be  a  verdict  for  the  plaintiff.  But  those  French  and 
Creoles  have  no  sense,  you  know.  They  are  the  creatures  of  prejudice 
or  whim.  They  are  not  practical.  Besides,  they  are  particularly  ob- 
stinate ;  and  as  they  never  have  anything  to  do,  they  will  keep  us  here 
locked  up  God  knows  how  long.  Had  we  not  better  humor  them  ?  It 
will  do  no  harm  to  the  plaintiff,  for,  as  Hennen  says,  the  Supreme 
Court  will  surely  reverse  our  verdict," 

This  suggestion  being  accepted,  the  Anglo-Saxon,  advancing  toward 
Macarty  and  pointing  to  the  record  which  that  gentleman  held  in  his 
hand,  said,  with  a  look  and  tone  of  interrogation,  "  Vous,  monsieur,  for 
plaintiff,  eh  ? "  Macarty  shook  his  head  negatively.  "  For  defendant  ? " 
Macarty  gave  an  affirmative  nod.  "Eh  Uen,  nous  aussi "  (Well,  we 
too),  continued  the  Saxon,  calling  to  his  assistance  these  French  words 
which  he  recollected,  and  which  he  put  together  as  well  as  he  could, 
whilst  he  pointed  to  his  two  friends  as  concurring  in  his  opinion. 

Macarty  understood  the  words  and  the  action.     His  face  became 


G2  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

radiant,  and  he  exclaimed,  "  Je  vois  avec  satisfaction,  messieurs,  que  vous 
avez  de  1'honneur  et  de  la  conscience,  et  que  vous  n'etes  pas  homines 
a  donner  vingt-cinq  arpents  a  qui  n'en  a  achete  que  vingt.  Aliens, 
c'est  bien ;  c'est  tres  bien."  (I  see  with  satisfaction,  gentlemen,  that 
you  are  men  of  honor  and  have  a  conscience,  and  that  you  are  not  the 
men  to  give  twenty-five  arpents  to  one  who  has  bought  only  twenty. 
It  is  well ;  it  is  very  well  indeed.) 

Whereupon  there  was  a  general  shaking  of  hands,  and  the  jury 
returned  to  the  court-room.  The  clerk  announced,  "  Yerdict  for  the 
defendant." 

"  Mr.  Sheriff,  discharge  the  jury,"  said  the  astonished  judge. 

Hennen  :  "  May  it  please  the  Court,  I  beg  leave  to  file  my  motion 
of  appeal  from  this  extraordinary  verdict." 

The  judge  nods  assent,  and  descends  slowly  from  the  bench.  Mazu- 
reau  approaches  Hennen,  who  is  handing  some  papers  to  the  clerk. 
They  look  at  each  other  face  to  face,  and  both  laugh  heartily.  They 
seem  to  be  much  amused  at  something. 

Mazureau  pulls  out  his  watch  :  "  Oh,  oh !  already  four  o'clock.  It 
is  dinner-time.  Hennen,  my  house  is  close  by.  I  have  to-day  a  fat 
turkey  aux  truffles,  and  exquisite  claret  just  received  from  Bordeaux. 
Suppose  you  join  me  ? " 

«  Willingly." 

And  the  two  eminent  lawyers  went  away  arm  in  arm. 

Let  us  witness  another  jury  trial,  in  which  it  happens  that  the  two 
races  are  again  divided.  This  contingency  has  been  provided  for,  and 
it  has  been  thought  prudent  on  both  sides  to  employ  two  lawyers, -one 
speaking  English  and  the  other  French.  John  K.  Grymes,  of  Vir- 
ginia, and  Dominique  Seghers,  of  Belgium,  for  plaintiff;  Edward 
Livingston,  of  New  York,  and  Moreau  Lislet,  of  France,  for  de- 
fendant. 

John  R.  Grymes  claims  to  belong  to  one  of  the  first  families  of 
Yirginia,  and  of  course  is  not  destitute  of  a  coat-of-arms.  He  is  an 
elegant,  distingue  looking  man,  above  the  middle  size,  always  fashion- 
ably well  dressed,  always  systematically  courteous.  He  brings  to  the 
bar  some  of  the  etiquette  and  forms  observed  in  the  saloons  of  refined 
society.  He  is  never  boisterous,  loud,  passionate,  and  rough  in  his 
tone  and  gesticulations.  As  an  orator  he  could  not  rise  to  the  altitude 
where  dwell  the  thunder  and  lightning  of  heaven;  he  remains  on 
earth,  where,  whatever  may  be  for  him  the  disadvantage  of  the  sandy 
plain  on  which  he  stands,  he  wields  with  admirable  effect  the  light, 
flexible,  brightly  polished,  but  cold  Damascus  steel  blade  of  Saladin. 
As  a  lawyer,  he  has  a  lucid,  logical  mind,  and  speaks  with  the  richest 
fluency,  never  being  at  a  loss  or  hesitating  about  a  word ;  but  that 


THE  NEW  ORLEANS  BENCH  AND  BAR  IN  1823.  63 

word,  although  presenting  itself  with  the  utmost  ease  and  confidence, 
is  not  always  the  proper  one.  His  style  is  far  from  being  classical,  or 
even  grammatical,  but  it  is  effective,  it  is  persuasive,  and  the  meaning 
which  it  intends  to  convey  is  understood  without  effort,  even  by  the 
dullest.  His  pronunciation  denotes  at  once  his  Virginian  origin ;  but 
his  voice  is  musical,  and  his  easy,  pleasing  flow  of  speech  leaves  no 
time  and  no  desire  to  the  hearer  to  analyze  its  constructive  elements. 

There  is  nothing  of  the  scholar  in  Grymes ;  his  collegiate  education 
has  been  imperfect ;  his  reading  is  not  extensive  as  to  legal  lore,  nor 
anything  else.  -  But  there  is  infinite  charm  in  his  natural  eloquence, 
and  his  powerful  native  intellect  knows  how  to  make  the  most  skilful 
use  of  the  materials  which  it  gathers  at  random  outside  of  any  regular 
course  of  study  and  research.  He  has  the  reputation  of  never  prepar- 
ing himself  for  the  trial  even  of  important  cases,  and  he  seems  pleased 
to  favor  the  spreading  of  that  impression.  He  affects  to  come  into 
court  after  a  night  of  dissipation,  and  to  take  at  once  all  his  points 
and  all  the  information  which  he  needs  from  his  associate  in  the  case, 
and  even  from  what  he  can  elicit  from  his  opponents  during  the  trial. 
It  is  when  he  pretends  to  be  least  prepared,  and  has  apparently  to  rely 
only  on  intuition  and  the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  that  his  brightest 
and  most  successful  efforts  are  made.  Many  have  some  doubts  about 
the  genuine  reality  of  this  phenomenon,  and  believe  that  Grymes 
works  more  in  secret  than  he  wants  the  public  to  know. 

No  man  was  ever  more  urbanely  sarcastic  in  words  or  pantomime. 
If  the  Court  disagrees  with  him  on  any  vital  point,  and  lays  down  the 
law  adversely  to  his  views,  he  has  a  way  of  gracefullv  and  submis- 
sively bowing  to  the  decision  with  a  half -suppressed  smile  of  derision, 
and  with  an  expression  of  the  face  which  clearly  says  to  the  by- 
standers :  "  I  respect  the  magistrate,  as  you  see,  but  what  a  goose 
that  fellow  is ! "  There  is  in  his  habitual  sneers  a  sort  of  amiability, 
a  good-natured  love  of  piquant  fun,  which  protects  them  against  the 
suspicion  of  malignity ;  the  shafts  of  his  gilded  bow  scratch  gently 
the  skin  with  a  perfumed  steel  point.  He  is  a  Chesterfield  in  his 
deportment  toward  all  his  colleagues  of  the  bar ;  but  if  too  much 
chafed  by  any  of  them  he  snorts  once  or  twice,  as  if  attempting  to 
expel  some  obstruction  from  his  nostrils.  This  is  a  sign  in  him  of 
rising  hostility,  and  without  losing  his  temper  he  becomes  politely 
aggressive,  and  his  usually  edulcorated  language  assumes  a  sort  of 
vitriolic  pungency.  No  one  possesses  better  than  he  does  the  art  of 
ridiculing  without  giving  positive  offence.  But  he  is  careful  to  use 
it  sparingly  in  court,  although  profusely  addicted  to  it  in  social 
intercourse.  He  is  extremely  fond  of  advocating  with  the  utmost 
gravity  wild  paradoxes,  which  he  frequently  makes  the  amusing  sub- 


(i-i  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

jects  of  conversation.  lie  stands  among  the  highest  in  his  profession, 
and  exercises  great  influence  over  judges  and  jurors. 

He  has  a  decided  taste  for  luxurious  living,  for  horse-racing,  cock- 
fighting,  and  card-gambling.  He  would  not  brook  the  shadow  of  a 
word  of  disparagement,  and  on  a  point  of  honor  would  immediatelv, 
like  all  Southern  gentlemen,  appeal  to  the  arbitration  of  the  duello. 
Notwithstanding  this  sensitiveness,  and  the  considerable  fees  which  he 
annually  receives  for  his  services  as  a  very  able  and  popular  member 
of  the  bar,  there  are  few  men  known  to  be  more  dunned  than  he  is. 
But  he  possesses  privileges  and  immunities  to  Avhich  nobody  else  could 
aspire;  he  is  the  Kichard  Brinsley  Sheridan  of  New  Orleans.  For 
instance,  as  an  example  of  the  liberties  which  he  takes,  if  dunned  too 
actively,  he  will  give  a  check  on  any  bank  of  which  he  bethinks  him- 
self at  the  moment,  and  the  person  who  presents  it  becomes  an  object 
of  merriment.  It  is  looked  upon  as  done  in  fun.  There  is  not,  of 
course,  any  idea  of  swindling  or  of  doing  any  real  impropriety.  It  is 
only  one  of  Grymes's  practical  jokes.  He  will  pay  in  the  end,  as 
everybody  knows,  with  any  amount  of  interest  in  addition,  and  with- 
out questioning  the  rate. 

In  those  days  of  strongly  marked  individualities  in  New  Orleans 
there  was  a  man  famous  for  collecting  money  from  the  most  obdurate 
debtors,  and  he  therefore  was  the  favorite  agent  of  creditors.  His 
name  was  Dupeux.  He  was  a  terror  to  all  those  who  indulged  in  the 
fancy  that  they  could  escape  from  the  payment  of  what  they  owed. 
It  might  have  been  possible  if  there  had  been  no  Dupeux  in  the  world, 
but  as  there  Avas  a  Dupeux,  it  was  impossible.  He  was  the  constable 
of  one  of  our  justices  of  the  peace,  but  he  never  himself  resorted  to 
law.  He  had  other  means  of  coercion  in  his  bag.  Once  on  the  track 
of  a  debtor,  he  never  lost  sight  of  him.  That  debtor  felt  at  once  that 
he  was  doomed,  for  he  soon  discovered  that  he  was  haunted  more 
frightfully  than  by  a  ghost.  Wherever  he  was,  by  day  and  by  night, 
if  there  was  any  imaginable  access  to  him,  there  suddenly  stood  in  his 
presence  the  inevitable  Dupeux,  with  his  pale,  supplicating  face,  ex- 
pressive of  the  agony  of  too  long  deferred  hope  of  payment,  and  with 
the  same  Gorgon  bill  in  his  hand.  No  tempest  of  curses  and  threats 
could  frighten  him  away  never  to  return ;  and  when  his  bodily  pres- 
ence could  be  avoided,  still  his  mournful,  piteous  face  and  its  mute 
appeal  remained  visible  through  the  debtor's  imagination.  It  became 
an  insupportable  obsession,  and  it  sometimes  happened  that,  to  get  rid 
of  it,  the  persecuted  victim  of  debt  would  in  a  fit  of  desperation  start 
in  pursuit  of  Dupeux  to  hasten  a  payment  which  had  been  hitherto 
pertinaciously  delayed  or  absolutely  refused. 

Such  was  the  individual  who,  one  morning  very  early,  met  Grymes 


THE  NEW  ORLEANS  BENCH  AND  BAR  IN  18S3.  65 

sallying  from  a  house  where  he  had  gambled  with  friends  during  the 
whole  night.  Dupeux  approached  reverentially  the  great  lawyer,  and 
with  a  pathetic  gesture  presented  the  bill  for  which  he  had  been  dun- 
ning that  personage  for  several  months.  "  Ah,  my  friend ! "  exclaimed 
Grymes,  "  what  a  lucky  coincidence !  You  happen  to  meet  me  when  I 
am  flush.  By-the-bye,  put  off  that  doleful  face  of  yours  ;  it  gives  me 
the  chills.  Well,  how  much  is  the  bill,  Dupeux — my  poor  Dupeux  ? " 

"  Twenty-five  dollars,  Mr.  Grymes." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  My  conscience  smites  me  for  having  made  you  wait 
so  long,  and  you  have  been  so  patient,  too !  You  are  an  angel,  Du- 
peux— my  poor  Dupeux !  "  And  he  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  very 
large  bundle  of  bank-notes,  from  which  he  extracted  one,  that  he 
handed  over  to  the  collector,  saying,  "  Pay  yourself." 

"  This  is  a  one-hundred-dollar  note,  Mr.  Grymes.  How  can  I  get 
change  at  this  hour  when  all  the  banks  and  shops  are  closed  ? "  said 
Dupeux,  in  a  whining  tone.  "  Have  you  not  smaller  notes  ? " 

"  Trouble  not  yourself  about  the  change,  my  friend  ;  keep  it  all, 
Dupeux — my  poor  Dupeux !  Let  the  balance  of  seventy-five  dollars 
go  toward  indemnifying  you  for  all  the  shoes  that  you  have  worn  in 
your  perambulations  after  me.  Good-by,  and  may  you  have  an  appe- 
tite for  breakfast,  Dupeux — my  poor  Dupeux  ! " 

Such  was  John  R.  Grymes,  the  most  careless  of  men  about  money, 
coining  it  by  the  bushel,  and  squandering  it  in  the  same  way.  But 
toward  the  end  of  his  life  he  became  more  economical,  honorably  paid 
all  his  debts,  and  left  to  his  family  a  competency  when  he  died  at  a 
ripe  old  age. 

Dominique  Seghers,  his  colleague  in  the  suit,  was  a  perfect  type  of 
the  red-tape  old  French  avoue  of  the  ancient  regime.  He  looked  into 
every  case  intrusted  to  his  care  con  amore,  almost  with  paternal  affec- 
tion. For,  was  he  not  to  give  it  a  legal  existence,  a  judicial  shape  or 
form,  that  would  be  faultless  ?  Besides,  he  loved  to  handle  and  manip- 
ulate the  law,  so  as  to  show  what  his  skill  could  do  with  it.  Such 
is  the  love  of  the  artist  for  the  instrument  to  which  he  is  indebted  for 
his  fortune  and  his  fame.  The  very  moment  a  subject  of  litigation 
was  placed  in  his  hands,  he  doubted  not  of  its  being  founded  in  law, 
and  if  that  law  was  not  apparent,  he  felt  convinced  that  by  dint  of 
patient  researches  he  would  discover  in  the  end  that  the  projected 
suit  could  be  based  on  some  article  of  the  Civil  Code,  some  special 
statute,  some  applicable  precedent,  some  decision  of  court,  if  not  on 
the  broad  principles  of  jurisprudence.  For  him  professionally  there 
was  no  right  or  wrong  outside  of  the  text  of  the  law.  Everything 
else  was  vaporous  sentimentality,  sheer  romance. 

He  was  essentially  practical.  To  go  to  court  was  to  go  to  war, 
5 


66  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

and  the  participants  in  it  were  to  take  the  consequences.  Strategic 
manoeuvres  ending  in  a  surprise  that  defeated  a  too  confident  or 
inexperienced  adversary  were,  according  to  his  views,  nothing  but  fair 
play.  As  to  himself,  he  went  into  the  conflict  armed  to  the  teeth  with 
every  offensive  and  defensive  weapon,  from  the  big  gun  of  massive 
argument  to  the  penknife  quibble  of  the  smallest  size.  For  who 
knows  but  what  the  feather  may  be  adjudged  of  weight,  when  the 
granite  block  will  be  declared  to  have  none  ?  Who  knew  this  better 
than  Seghers  ?  And  thus  he  neglected  nothing  to  insure  success.  It 
was  his  business  to  gain  his  case :  that  of  the  court  or  of  the  jury  was 
'to  decide  correctly.  If  they  erred,  whose  responsibility  was  it  ?  Not 
his  surely  if  in  duty  to  his  client  he  had  misled  them  by  some  iynits 
fatuus.  Within  -the  precincts  of  the  court,  within  the  range  of  his 
profession,  he  proceeded  with  the  caution  of  an  Indian  creeping 
stealthily  into  the  territory  of  a  hostile  tribe,  and  looking  anxiously 
for  an  enemy  behind  every  bush  and  tree.  He  gave  no  quarter,  and 
asked  for  none. 

There  never  was  a  microscope  more  effective  than  the  one  with 
which  Seghers  examined  every  word,  every  syllable,  every  comma,  in 
his  adversary's  pleadings,  and  there  never  was  any  false  step,  any 
negligence,  any  defect  or  omission  of  legal  formalities,  of  \vhich  old 
Seghers  hesitated  to  take  immediate  advantage.  I  say  "  old  Seghers," 
because  in  my  youth  I  never  heard  his  name  mentioned  without  the 
addition  of  that  adjective.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  never  been  sus- 
pected of  ever  having  been  young. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  instructive  for  a  young  practitioner 
than  to  study  attentively  every  petition  or  answer  that  Seghers  ever 
filed  in  court.  They  were  written  with  a  skill  and  minute  care  that 
defied  criticism.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  left  no  loop-hole  through 
which  his  opponent  could  stick  a  pin,  and  woe  to  that  opponent  if  he 
got  entangled  in  the  spider's  web  against  which  he  bumped  his  head  ! 
As  to  himself,  he  never  entered  any  battle-field  of  litigation  unless 
encased  in  a  double-plated  suit  of  armor  ten  inches  in  thickness,  and 
without  having  protected  his  position,  whenever  it  was  possible,  with 
all  sorts  of  pitfalls  and  traps. 

He  had  to  contend  against  a  peculiar  and  very  serious  impediment 
for  a  man  of  his  profession.  It  was  the  extreme  difficulty  which  lie 
had  to  express  himself.  In  court  he  painfully  struggled  for  words. 
,  They  stuck  in  his  throat ;  and  when  at  last  they  came  out,  it  was  as  if 
they  had  forced  their  Avay  through  an  obstructed  passage.  It  was  in 
a  jumbling  sort  of  way.  There  was  an  elbowing,  a  pushing,  a  tramp- 
ling upon  one  another,  as  people  generally  do  when  in  a  too  closely 
packed  crowd.  But  he  patiently  took  his  time  to  evolve  order  out  of 


THE  NEW  ORLEANS  BENCH  AND  BAR  IN  1823.  67 

confusion.  No  interruptions  from  court  or  jury,  or  from  the  adverse 
party,  however  frequently  repeated,  could  put  him  out  of  countenance. 
If  continued  too  long,  for  the  evident  purpose  of  increasing  the  dis- 
array of  his  words,  if  not  of  his  ideas,  and  enfeebling  his  laboriously 
uttered  arguments,  he  would  stop,  and  phlegmatically  show  his  annoy- 
ance at  it  by  merely  turning  up  his  eyes  to  heaven,  seemingly  as  a 
mute  appeal  for  the  grant  of  sufficient  patience  to  support  him  under 
the  inflicted  vexations.  But  after  a  while  he  would  start  again,  in  his 
humdrum  style,  precisely  from  the  point  where  the  thread  of  his  dis- 
course had  been  cut  off. 

I  need  not  mention,  for  it  might  be  easily  inferred,  that  in  his 
every-day  life  Seghers  was  as  methodical  and  precise  as  in  his  pro- 
fessional one.  His  physical  appearance  would  easily  have  denoted  the 
inward  man  to  a  physiognomist.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  character 
in  his  features.  They  were  strongly  marked — a  sharp,  long  face ;  a 
large  mouth ;  a  much-protruding  and  big  nose ;  gray  eyes  partici- 
pating of  the  elongated  olive  shape,  with  furtive  and  oblique  glances 
to  detect  anything  suspicious,  from  whatever  part  of  the  horizon  it 
might  come ;  large  flat  ears  that  stuck  close  to  the  sides  of  the  head, 
and  for  which  no  approach  of  a  velvet-footed  cat  would  have  been 
noiseless.  This  gentleman  acquired  by  his  profession  a  considerable 
fortune. 

Among  the  Americans  who  had  come  to  New  Orleans  to  better 
their  fortune,  none  was  so  distinguished  as  Edward  Livingston.  He 
was  of  an  illustrious  family,  and  before  emigrating  to  the  extreme 
South  he  had  been  mayor  of  the  city  of  New  York.  He  had  not  been 
long  in  the  place  which  he  had  chosen  for  his  new  sphere  of  action 
before  he  gave  ample  evidence  of  his  superb  talents.  He  at  once 
became  one  of  the  leading  members  of  the  bar,  notwithstanding  his 
having  enemies  who  spread  evil  reports  against  him,  and  his  having 
incurred  a  great  deal  of  unpopularity  in  consequence  of  the  part ,  he 
took  in  the  famous  "  batture  case,"  which  gave  rise  to  riots  in  New 
Orleans  and  to  an  acrimonious  controversy  between  Thomas  Jefferson 
and  himself,  in  which  he  showed  that  he  was  at  least  equal,  if  not 
superior,  to  his  great  adversary.  He,  however,  manfully  and  success- 
fully battled  against  the  numerous  obstacles  which  he  met  in  his  way. 
He  was  possessed  of  too  much  genius  and  firmness  of  nerve  to  be  kept 
down  and  prevented  from  rising  up,  eagle-like,  to  the  altitude  where 
he  could  freely  expand  his  wings  and  breathe  in  his  native  empyreal 
element.  Conquering  prejudices,  calumnies,  and  envy,  he  grew 
rapidly,  as  he  became  better  known  and  appreciated,  upon  the  esteem 
and  confidence  of  his  fellow-citizens  in  his  newly  elected  home,  and 
was  sent  to  represent  Louisiana  in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States. 


68  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

His  career  as  such,  as  Secretary  of  State  under  the  Presidency  of 
General  Jackson,  and  as  Minister  Plenipotentiary  in  France,  is  well 
known.  For  the  present  I  have  only  to  deal  with  him  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  New  Orleans  bar,  where  he  towered  up  as  one  of  its 
giants. 

Edward  Livingston  was  tall  and  spare  in  body,  and  with  strong, 
clear-cut  features,  which  denoted  his  Scotch  ancestry.  The  habitual 
expression  of  his  face  was  meditative  and  rather  austere,  but  his  smile 
was  indicative  of  the  benignity  of  his  heart.  He  was  mild  in  manner, 
courteous,  dignified,  and  indefatigably  laborious.  The  pleasures  of 
society  did  not  seem  to  have  much  attraction  for  him.  To  change 
the  nature  of  his  occupation  was  sufficient  relief  and  rest  for  his  tem- 
perament, and  even  a  diversion  much  more  to  his  taste  than  any  other. 
He  was  a  profound  jurist  and  an  accomplished  scholar.  Which  of  the 
two  predominated,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  tell.  He  managed 
his  cases  in  court  with  admirable  self-possession.  It  was  the  calm  con- 
sciousness of  strength  ;  it  was  the  serene  majesty  of  intellect.  There 
was  no  sparring,  no  wrangling,  no  browbeating.  When  he  rose  to 
speak,  the  attention  of  the  judge,  jurors,  members  of  the  bar,  and 
everybody  in  court  was  instantly  riveted.  All  knew  that  they  were 
to  listen  to  what  was  worth  hearing.  There  were  no  flashy  declama- 
tions, no  unbecoming  carpings,  no  hair-splitting,  no  indecorous  clap- 
trap, no  tinsel  ornament,  no  stage  thunder,  no  flimsy  sophistical 
argumentation,  no  idle  straggling  words.  His  discourse  was  compact 
and  robust ;  his  language  was  terse  and  pure.  His  eloquence  was 
of  the  classical  order,  and  uniformly  elegant.  It  would,  in  forensic 
debates,  flow  at  first  with  the  modesty  of  a  gentle  stream,  but  by 
degrees,  swelling  and  rushing  like  the  mighty  tide  of  the  ocean,  it 
would  overflow  far  and  wide,  and  leave  to  opposition  not  an  inch  of 
ground  to  stand  upon. 

Moreau  Lislet,  his  associate  in  the  case  which  we  have  supposed 
ready  for  trial,  is  a  rotund  Frenchman  past  the  meridian  of  life.  His 
eyes  sparkle  with  good-natured  wit  under  the  large  spectacles  which 
bestride  his  small  nose.  Everything  seems  soft  in  him,  even  his  bones. 
His  flesh  is  tremulous,  like  blancmange  or  a  jelly,  and  as  yielding  under 
the  touch.  His  hands  are  diminutive  and  plump.  He  does  not  look 
formidable,  does  he  ?  No.  Well,  you  had  better  beware  of  him.  He 
is  an  artesian  well  of  legal  lore — deep,  very  deep.  He  is  one  of  those 
two  or  three  jurists  who  were  intrusted  by  the  Legislature  with  the 
work  of  adapting  the  Napoleon  Code  to  the  wants  and  circumstances 
of  Louisiana  under  her  new  institutions.  He  has  no  pretensions  to 
oratory.  He  addresses  the  court  or  the  jury  in  a  sort  of  conversa- 
tional, familiar  way.  He  is  always  in  a  good  humor,  which  is  com- 


THE  NEW  ORLEANS  BENCH  AND  BAR  IN  1823.  69 

mimicative.  He  is  a  very  great  favorite  with  the  judges,  the  clerks, 
the  sheriffs,  the  jurors,  the  members  of  the  bar— in  fact,  with  every- 
body. He  is  so  kind,  so  benevolent,  so  amiable  in  all  his  dealings  and 
sayings !  His  bonhomie  is  so  captivating !  Of  so  sympathizing  a 
nature  is  he  that,  for  instance,  he  sometimes  takes  up  his  adversary's 
side  of  the  question,  admits  that  there  is  a  good  deal  to  say  in  his 
favor,  and  says  it  and  shows  it  too.  He  will  even  go  so  far  as  to  pre- 
sent it  to  the  court  in  its  very  best  aspect.  But  after  having  thus 
acted  with  such  kindness  and  impartiality  toward  his  opponent,  he 
pathetically  apologizes  for  destroying  all  his  hopes  and  illusions, 
regrets  that  his  claim  is  not  founded  on  the  "law  and  evidence  appli- 
cable to  the  case,  demonstrates  it  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  and 
finally  exterminates  the  poor  fellow  with  a  sigh  of  compassion  over 
his  hard  fate.  Ho,  ho !  beware  of  Moreau  Lislet  and  of  his  bon- 
homie ! 

The  case  in  which  these  four  gentlemen  were  engaged  was  a  jury 
one.  It  was  in  the  latter  part  of  June,  and  exceedingly  hot.  When 
Grymes,  for  the  plaintiff,  rose  to  address  the  jury  in  English,  one  of 
its  members  who  did  not  understand  a  single  word  of  that  language, 
speaking  in  the  name  of  such  of  his  colleagues  as  were  in  the  same 
predicament,  begged  the  judge  on  that  ground  to  allow  them  to  leave 
their  seats,  and  be  permitted  to  inhale  the  fresh  air  under  the  arcades 
of  the  building  in  which  the  court  held  its  session.  This  was  gra- 
ciously permitted,  and  during  one  hour  that  Grymes  spoke  the  Gallic 
portion  of  the  jurors  enjoyed  their  promenade  and  their  cigars  in  the 
cool  breeze  that  came  from  the  river.  When  Grymes  had  done,  and 
Seghers,  on  the  same  side,  rose  in  his  turn,  the  voice  of  the  sheriff 
was  heard  crying  loudly,  "  Gentlemen  of  the  jury  who  are  outside, 
please  come  into  court."  They  immediately  filed  in  and  gravely 
resumed  their  seats.  Seghers  had  hardly  said  a  few  words  in 
French  when  the  Anglo-Saxon  jurors,  on  their  application  for  a 
similar  favor,  were  also  permitted  to  stretch  their  legs  under  the 
same  arcades,  and  to  pass  their  time  as  comfortably  as  they  could. 
The  repetition  of  this  scene  took  place  when  Livingston  and  Moreau 
Lislet  spoke  alternately.  This  was  of  daily  occurrence  at  that 
epoch. 

After  a  little  while  everybody  became  reconciled  to  what  at  first 
had  been  thought  an  intolerable  inconvenience  or  annoyance.  In  the 
course  of  time  the  high-spirited  and  light-limbed  Latin  genet  and  the 
massive,  slower-tempered  Saxon  horse,  being  both  harnessed  to  the  car 
of  justice,  learned  to  pull  together,  and  contrived  by  some  means  or 
other  to  make  its  wheels  work  smoothly,  notwithstanding  the  natural 
difficulties  of  the  road.  The  qualifications  to  be  a  juror  were  then  of 


70  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

a  higher  order  than  those  which  have  been  since  required,  and  if  the 
echoes  which  are  wafted  to  me  in  my  retreat  from  our  courts  of 
justice  are  faithful  expressions  of  the  public  sentiment  on  the  sub- 
ject, I  must  come  to  the  conclusion  that  trials  by  jury  sixty  years 
ago,  notwithstanding  certain  eccentricities  from  which  they  were 
not  free,  gave  rise  to  fewer  complaints  than  those  of  the  present 
day. 


THE   OAKS. 

THE    OLD   DUELLING-GROUNDS    OF   NEW    ORLEANS.* 
BY   JOHN   AUGUSTIN. 

[JOHN  AUGUSTIN  was  born  in  New  Orleans,  February  11,  1838.  His  volume, 
War  Flowers  (1865),  is  a  collection  of  poems  that  were  written  by  him  during  his  service 
in  the  Confederate  Army.  He  held,  at  different  times,  the  city  editorship  of  nearly 
every  newspaper  of  New  Orleans.  He  died  February  5,  1888.] 

UNDER  the  wide-spreading  oaks  of  ancient  Gaul  the  consecrated 
Druids  with  golden  sickle  cut  the  holy  mistletoe  that  sanctified  their 
foreheads  in  the  stern  celebration  of  their  rites  of  blood.  Happy  was 
the  victim  offered  in  sacrifice ;  for  to  die  was  to  know,  and  to  go  for- 
ward knowing,  in  that  eternity  of  progressive  acquirements  and  bliss 
which  ended  in  the  perfection  of  knowledge,  the  sublime  identification 
with  nature  on  some  ultimate  star,  radiant  with  omniscience  and 
musical  with  the  rhythmic  pulsations  of  eternal  peace. 

I  cannot  sit  of  a  calm  evening  under  the  pensive  oaks,  from  whose 
gray  beards,  waving  under  the  sway  of  the  breeze,  comes  a  murmur 
as  of  a  prayer  and  prophecy,  without  reverting  to  that  stern  yet  hope- 
ful creed  of  Eunic  times,  which  held  knowledge  to  be  the  supreme 
good,  and  pointed  to  sacrificial  death  as  the  first  step  to  its  acquire- 
ment. 

It  is  curious  that  rites  of  blood  should  have  been  the  foundation  of 
every  religion.  Even  the  meek  and  divine  Jesus  found  it  necessary  to 
die  on  the  cross  so  that  humanity  might  be  saved.  There  is  a  prob- 
lem full  of  yet  unfathomed  meaning  in  this  perpetual  theory  of  blood 
atonement.  Else  why  the  traditional  sanctity  of  war  and  the  undying 
fame  which  attaches  to  successful  military  chieftains,  loftier  than  the 
apotheosis  of  saints  ?  Why  the  glamour  around  the  heroes  of  knight 
errantry,  riding  alone  and  full-armed  in  search  of  blood  to  spill  for  the 
redressing  of  wrong  ?  Why  the  trial  by  single  combat,  introduced  by 
Holy  Church  and  but  recently  fallen  into  disfavor  ? 

##**#-K#-* 

Where  the  Metairie  Ridge,  slightly  undulating,  barely  breaks  the 
monotonous  flatness  of  the  hazy  landscape,  standing  near  the  dilapi- 
dated tomb  of  Louis  Allard,  such  thoughts  crossed  the  mind  of  the 

*  [Written  in  1887.] 


72  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

writer  as  he  gradually  became  enveloped  in  the  dark  shadows  which  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  slanted  from  the  oaks  of  the  Lower  City  Park. 

These  oaks  were  formerly  known  as  the  "  Chenes  d'Allard,"  other- 
wise called  "  Metairie  oaks."  These,  also,  in  their  time,  witnessed  rites 
of  blood,  and  lent  their  protecting  shade  to  many  a  preconcerted, 
solemn  and  deadly  encounter  between  man  and  man. 

A  short  walk  from  the  terminus  of  the  Bayou  Road  street-car  line 
in  New  Orleans,  at  the  foot  of  Esplanade  Street,  after  crossing  the 
bridge  over  Bayou  St.  John,  brings  the  visitor  in  front  of  a  magnifi- 
cent little  forest  of  gigantic  live  oaks.  It  is  the  Lower  City  Park,  in 
former  days  a  wooded  plantation  belonging  to  Louis  Allard. 

This  gentleman,  who  was  a  man  of  letters  and  a  poet,  owned  all 
that  tract  of  land  extending  from  Bayou  St.  John  to  the  Orleans 
Canal,  and  from  the  Metairie  Road  to  the  old  toll-gate.  That  portion 
.of  it  which  is  now  called  the  Lower  City  Park  was  purchased  previous 
to  his  death  by  the  millionnaire  philanthropist,  John  McDonogh,  at 
a  sale  made  for  foreclosure  of  mortgage  by  the  Citizens'  Bank  of 
Louisiana.  McDonogh  left  it  by  will  to  the  cities  of  New  Orleans 
and  Baltimore,  and  the  city  of  New  Orleans  acquired  it  in  full  owner- 
ship at  the  partition  sale. 

During  the  latter  portion  of  his  life,  Allard,  who,  being  a  poet,  was 
an  indifferent  business  man,  crippled  in  health  and  fortune,  was  per- 
mitted, after  the  sale,  by  special  agreement,  to  continue  his  occupation 
of  the  place.  There  he  would  spend  all  his  days,  reclining  in  an  arm- 
chair under  his  beloved  oaks,  reading  his  favorite  authors  and  dream- 
ing of  what  might  have  been.  He  died  not  long  after  the  sale  of  his 
property,  and  in  compliance  with  his  clying  wish  lies  buried  in  the  old 
place  under  the  very  oak  where  the  last  years  of  his  life  had  been 
spent. 

A  few  bricks,  uncared  for,  a  tomb  burst  open  by  time  and  ruthless 
hands,  protected  from  the  sun  and  rain  by  the  faithful  boughs  of  his 
favorite  oak,  mark  his  resting-place. 

To  one  coming  from  the  Metairie  Road,  this  tomb  is  on  a  wooded 
plain  in  the  rear,  well  to  the  right  of  the  park  proper,  from  which  it 
is  divided  by  a  small,  swampy  ravine,  crossed  by  a  primitive  wooden 
bridge.  From  its  site,  glancing  obliquely  to  the  left,  the  legendary 
oaks  rear  their  majestic  heads  in  solemn  grandeur. 

Scarcely  half  a  century  has  passed  over  these  centenarians  since 
Louis  Allard,  in  the  full  vigor  of  youth,  walked  under  their  branches. 
Allard  is  dead.  McDonogh,  who  purchased  from  him,  is  also  gone, 
leaving  behind  him,  as  undying  monuments,  the  public  schools  with 
which  he  has  gifted  the  city.  A  terrible  war  between  two  sections  of 
our  great  country  has  changed  and  revolutionized  the  entire  social  sys- 


THE  OAKS.  73 

tern  of  the  South.  But  the  grand  oaks  are  still  the  same,  solemnly 
brooding  at  night  over  memories  of  the  past.  Perhaps  their  gnarled 
trunks  are  somewhat  more  rugged ;  but  they  are  as  majestic  and  vigor- 
ous as  ever,  their  green  boughs  throwing  back  the  sunlight  with  all 
the  brightness  and  elasticity  of  everlasting  youth. 

But  the  fame  of  the  Metairie  oaks  does  not  rest  upon  the  poetry  or 
scholarly  accomplishments  of  their  former  proprietor,  nor  upon  the 
memory  of  the  philanthropist  who  bequeathed  them  to  the  city,  nor 
upon  the  sturdy  strength  or  the  perennial  youth  of  their  green 
branches ;  the  great  interest  that  lingers  among  them  comes  from  the 
memories  which  they  recall,  and  it  is  the  witchery  of  tradition  that 
makes  them  immortal. 

The  antithetic  lights  and  shades  of  their  leafy  arcades,  typical  of 
a  state  of  society  where  tragedy  and  gayety  walked  side  by  side  in 
chivalrous  converse,  take  back  our  memories  to  a  period  scarcely  fifty 
years  remote,  when  it  was  an  every-day  occurrence  to  see  under  these 
very  branches  a  meeting  of  adversaries  in  mortal  combat,  with  rapier 
or  pistol,  sabre  or  shotgun. 

At  that  time  New  Orleans,  though  even  then  to  a  degree  cosmo- 
politan, was  essentially  a  Creole  city,  and  under  the  full  influence  of 
the  traditions  which  governed  that  high-strung  and  chivalrous  race. 
The  descendants  of  the  early  possessors  of  the  soil,  many  of  whom 
were  of  aristocratic  blood,  had  grown  up  with  the  more  plebeian  sons 
of  the  other  settlers,  and,  what  with  education  in  common,  received  in 
Europe  or  at  the  College  d' Orleans  in  this  city,  what  with  intermar- 
riages, the  habit  of  command  acquired  from  the  ownership  of  slaves, 
and  the  refining  influence  of  well-employed  leisure,  formed  a  sort  of 
aristocracy  from  which  the  South  derived  some  of  its  brightest  intel- 
lects. It  was  a  nobility  less  of  birth  than  of  manners,  breeding,  edu- 
cation, and  tradition. 

Besides,  life  was  easy  in  New  Orleans  at  that  time,  for  the  city  was 
not  only  a  great  place  of  import  and  export  from  its  position  near  the 
Gulf,  but  owing  to  its  river  facilities,  not  yet  antagonized  by  the  rail- 
roads, it  controlled  with  scarcely  any  competition  the  whole  trade  of 
the  West. 

Money  was  therefore  acquired  without  the  absorbing  and  deleteri-. 
ous  consequences  of  incessant  labor ;  there  was  time  left  to  merchants 
and  clerks  for  mental  culture,  and  imagination  was  not,  by  the  nature 
of  things,  excluded  from  the  active  world. 

The  women,  bred  at  home,  under  a  mother's  jealous  surveillance, 
educated  by  the  best  private  teachers  or  at  the  renowned  Convent  of 
the  Ursuline  Nuns,  were  versed  in  arts  and  letters.  Invariably  treated 
with  the  most  deferential  gallantry  by  the  men,  none  of  whom  were 


74  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

ever  known  to  smoke  or  otherwise  demean  themselves  in  the  presence 
of  a  lady,  they  had  naturally  acquired  manners  of  great  refinement 
and  distinction. 

The  world  and  society  were  therefore  of  courtly  brilliancy.  Mer- 
chants and  lawyers  were  incidentally  poets  and  wits,  and  the  ladies 
accomplished  musicians. 

Over  all  this :  over  men  and  women,  there  ruled  a  supreme  sense 
of  dignity  and  honor,  maintained  by  the  strictest  and  most  unflinching 
public  opinion. 

At  that  time  bankrupts  committed  suicide,  and  women  fallen  from 
virtue  disappeared  and  were  never  heard  from.  There  was  no  compro- 
mise with  honor ;  society  did  not  permit  it. 

Under  this  moral  condition  of  affairs,  the  punctilio  among  men  was 
strict  even  to  exaggeration.  The  least  breach  of  etiquette,  the  most 
venial  sin  against  politeness,  the  least  suspicion  thrown  out  of  unfair 
dealing,  even  a  bit  of  awkwardness,  were  causes  sufficient  for  a  cartel, 
which  none  dared  refuse. 

The  acceptance,  however,  did  not  mean  that  the  quarrel  must  inevi- 
tablv  be  settled  on  the  field.  The  seconds,  two  on  each  side,  discussed 
the  quarrel  dispassionately,  sometimes  with  the  assistance  of  mutual 
friends,  and  often  arrived  at  an  amicable  and  honorable  settlement. 

A  blow  was  strictly  forbidden,  and  sufficient  to  debar  the  striker 
from  the  privilege  of  the  duello.  A  gentleman  who  would  so  far  for- 
get himself  as  to  strike  another,  was  exposed  to  the  ignominy  of  being 
refused  a  meeting.  Some  who  have  so  lost  their  self-possession  have 
been  known  to  submit  to  the  greatest  humiliation  in  order  to  obtain 
from  their  adversary  an  exchange  of  shots  or  a  crossing  of  swords. 
Nor  even  was  an  insult  permitted  to  go  beyond  a  certain  decorum  of 
form.  Experienced  friends,  well  versed  in  the  law  and  precedents  of 
the  code,  settled  beforehand  every  nice  point,  so  that  the  adversaries 
met  under  the  oaks  in  full  equality,  morally  and  socially. 

How  many  a  bloody  combat  originated  in  a  ballroom,  where  the 
cause  of  the  difficulty  passed  unnoticed  by  all ! 

Said  a  gentleman  to  a  much-courted  lady  dancing  in  a  brilliant 
ballroom : 

"  Honor  me  with  half  of  this  dance  ? " 

"  Ask  monsieur,''  answered  the  lady  ;  "  it  belongs  to  him." 

"Never,"  spoke  the  dancer,  when  appealed  to,  whirling  past  in 
the  waltz,  and  just  caught  the  words  softly  spoken  by  smiling  lips  as 
he  passed  by : 

"  Ah,  vous  etes  mal  eleve." 

Not  a  word  more  was  said  that  night  between  the  two  gentlemen, 
though  they  subsequently  met  and  bowed  ;  but  early  the  next  morning 


THE  OAKS.  75 

the  flippant  talker  received  a  challenge,  and  in  the  evening  a  neat 
coup  droit  under  the  oaks  at  the  Metairie. 

So  well  recognized  was  the  code  by  all  who  had  any  pretensions  to 
good  breeding,  that  even  judges  on  the  bench  would  resent  an  insult 
from  lawyers  at  the  bar.  A  typical  anecdote  of  the  time  is  here  given 
as  exemplifying  the  then  existing  feeling  about  the  duello. 

Judge  Joachim  Bermudez,  father  of  the  present  *  Chief  Justice  of 
the  State,  while  on  the  bench,  made  a  ruling  against  a  certain  lawyer, 
who  objected  in  rather  unbecoming  terms.  He  was  ordered  to  sit 
down,  and  refused ;  whereupon  the  judge  ordered  the  sheriff  to  take 
him  into  custody  for  contempt  of  court.  Drawing  a  pistol,  the  lawyer 
defied  the  sheriff,  who  feared  to  advance.  The  judge,  leaping  from  his 
bench,  seized  the  lawyer  by  the  arm  and  handed  him  to  a  police 
officer,  who  led  him  to  prison. 

The  judge  soon  after  ordered  his  release. 

That  evening  he  received  a  challenge  from  the  lawyer,  which  was 
promptly  accepted.  On  the  field  the  lawyer  offered  to  apologize  ;  but 
that  was  not  permitted  by  the  code.  Never,  on  the  field.  The  judge 
absolutely  refused  any  apology,  and  the  lawyer  had  to  leave  the  country. 
He  could  not  have  practised,  after  this,  before  the  courts  of  the  State. 

The  oaks  of  the  Metairie,  or  "  Chenes  d'Allard,"  did  not  become  a 
place  of  rendezvous  for  duellists  until  the  year  1834.  Previous  to  this 
the  favorite  place  for  fighting  was  the  Fortin  property,  now  the  Fair 
Grounds.  The  fact  is,  New  Orleans  being  then  but  sparsely  built  in 
the  rear,  there  were  a  number  of  convenient  places  closer  at  hand 
where  those  who  had  a  stomach  for  battle  could  satisfy  their  cravings 
to  their  heart's  content,  without  fear  of  interference.  To  say  the 
truth,  interference  was  the  exception.  It  is  true  that  there  existed  a 
law  against  duelling,  but  the  practice  was  so  strongly  welded  in  the 
customs  of  the  people  that  the  statute  served  only  to  add  the  glamour 
of  mystery  and  the  flavor  of  forbidden  fruit  to  the  other  fascinations 
of  the  deadly  game,  and  might  as  well  not  have  existed. 

Things  being  so,  it  is  hot  astonishing  that  New  Orleans  should 
have  been  a  favorite  resort  for  professors  of  fence  or  mattres  (Tannes. 
Most  of  these,  having  no  further  personal  value  than  their  skill  with 
the  foils,  lived  in  blood,  wine,  and  profligacy  their  circumscribed  lives, 
between  the  cafes  and  salles  d'escrime,  and  even  their  names  are  now 
forever  forgotten.  Others,  who  pursued  their  calling  as  an  honored 
profession,  acquired  a  certain  standing  in  society,  and  old  residents 
love  to  talk  over  their  skill  in  arms  and  their  other  lovable  and  manly 
traits.  Others,  again,  have  acquired  fame  for  having  killed  or  having 
been  killed  in  duels. 

*  [1887.] 


76  HISTORICAL   SKETCHES. 

Among  the  latter  were  Marcel  Dauphin,  who  was  killed  by  A.  Nora 
in  a  duel  writh  shotguns ;  Bonneval,  who  was  killed  by  Reynard,  also 
a  professional  swordsman ;  L'Alouette,  who  killed  Shubra,  another 
professor,  and  who  was  Pepe  Lulla's  teacher  of  fence  and  subsequently 
his  associate;  Thimecourt,  who  killed  Poulaga,  and  of  whom  more 
hereafter,  as  also  about  his  confrere  Monthiach  ;  and  more  of  the  same 
sort. 

Among  the  former  were  E.  Baudoin,  a  Parisian,  who  was  very 
popular  and  well  esteemed ;  Emile  Cazere,  who  had  quite  an  aristo- 
cratic clientele  /  and  Gilbert  Rosiere,  familiarly  called  by  his  pupils 
Titi  Rosiere,  perhaps  the  most  popular  among  all  the  fencing-masters 
that  ever  came  to  New  Orleans.  I  must  not  forget  Basile  Croquere, 
who,  though  a  mulatto,  was  such  a  fine  blade  that  many  of  the  best 
Creole  gentlemen  did  not  hesitate,  notwithstanding  the  strong  preju- 
dice against  color,  to  frequent  his  salle  d'armes,  and  even  cross  swords 
with  him  in  private  assauts. 

Gilbert  Rosiere,  whose  son  Gustave,  himself  an  admirable  swords- 
man, followed  the  Gardes  d'Orleans  to  the  plain  of  Shiloh  at  General 
Beauregard's  call,  is  the  maitre  Cannes  who  has  left  the  best  and  cer- 
tainly the  most  vivid  souvenirs.  All  of  us  who  were  young  before  the 
war,  remember  the  gay,  whole-souled,  though  irascible,  fencing-master. 
A  native  of  Bordeaux,  he  had  come  to  New  Orleans  when  a  very  young 
man,  to  make  his  fortune  at  the  bar.  But  he  was  of  a  wild  disposition 
and  fell  in  with  a  wild  set :  so  he  dropped  the  Code  Napoleon  for  the 
Code  of  Honor,  became  a  leader  in  all  the  escapades  and  devil-may- 
care  adventures  of  ihejeunesse  doree  of  that  time,  and  turned  fencing- 
master.  During  the  Mexican  war  he  made  a  fortune  (which  he 
squandered  as  lightly  as  made)  teaching  fencing  to  officers.  Brave 
and  generous  to  a  fault,  he  was  every  one's  friend,  and,  contradic- 
tory as  it  may  seem,  this  hero  of  seven  duels  in  one  week  was,  in 
some  respects,  of  womanly  tenderness.  He  would  fight  with  men  to 
the  bitter  death,  but  would  not  have  hurt  a  defenceless  thing,  woman, 
child,  or  fly. 

He  was  passionately  fond  of  music  and  nervously  sensitive  to  its 
melting  impressions.  A  great  frequenter  of  the  opera,  his  superb  head 
could  be  seen  almost  every  night  towering  above  the  others  in  the 
parquette.  On  one  occasion,  deeply  touched  by  the  pathos  of  a  well- 
sung  cantilena,  he  wept  audibly.  An  imprudent  neighbor  laughed, 
but  his  amusement  was  of  short  duration,  for  Rosiere  had  scarcely 
noticed  it  than  his  tenderness  turned  to  anger. 

"  C'est  vrai,"  he  said,  "  je  pleure,  mais  je  donne  aussi  des  calottes." 

By  this  time  the  man's  face  was  already  slapped,  and  the  next  day 
a  flesh  wound  had  taught  him  that  it  is  not  always  good  to  laugh. 


THE  OAKS.  7? 

AVell  might  Rosiere  have  exclaimed  with  the  old  German  knight  at 
the  close  of  his  career : 

"  I  have  lived  my  life,  I  have  fought  my  fight, 

I  have  drunk  my  share  of  wine  ; 
From  Trier  to  Koln  there  never  was  knight 
Led  a  merrier  life  than  mine  !  " 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1840.  There  was  a  grand  assaut  d'armes 
between  professors  at  the  old  "  Salle  St.  Philipe,"  which  was  filled 
with  the  gilded  youth  of  old-time  New  Orleans.  None  but  brevetted 
experts,  who  could  show  a  diploma,  were  allowed  to  participate.  The 
valorous  Pepe  Lulla,  now  famous  for  a  large  number  of  successful 
duels,  then  a  vigorous  young  man,  skilled  in  the  use  of  all  weapons, 
was  refused  the  privilege  of  a  bout  because  he  had  no  papers  to  show. 

An  Italian  professor  of  counterpoint,  named  Poulaga,  a  man  of 
magnificent  physique  and  herculean  strength,  was  there  holding  his 
own  with  the  broadsword,  and  bidding  defiance  to  all  comers. 

Captain  Thimecourt,  a  former  cavalry  officer,  opposed  and  defeated 
him.  The  humiliation  was  too  much  for  the  Italian's  pride,  and  he 
remarked  with  a  sneer  that  Thimecourt  was  a  good  "tireur  de 
sailed 

"  Qu'a  cela  ne  tienne"  at  once  exclaimed  the  soldier,  "  let  us  adjourn 
to  the  field." 

Without  further  parley,  they  took  rendezvous  for  the  oaks,  and 
there  Thimecourt  cut  his  adversary  to  pieces. 

This  same  assaut  d'armes  was  the  cause  of  Pepe  Lulla's  challenging 
a  French  professor  named  Grand  Bernard,  who  had  insisted  upon  his 
producing  a  diploma  before  crossing  SAVords  with  him  in  the  salle 
d'armes.  They  fought  with  broadswords,  and  Pepe  with  his  good 
blade,  though  he  had  no  diploma,  opened  the  master's  flank  in  two 
places. 

Thimecourt  was  one  of  the  most  noted  professors  of  fence  of  the 
period,  his  favorite  weapon  being  the  broadsword,  in  the  management 
of  which  he  excelled.  An  admirable  expounder  of  the  counterpoint, 
he  was  not  otherwise  highly  cultivated  in  any  manner,  and  delighted 
principally  in  broils  and  battle. 

Another  well-known  and  contemporaneous  professor  was  a  German 
swordsman  named  Monthiach.  He  was  tall,  fleshy,  and  muscular,  and 
at  the  same  time  the  best-natured  fellow  in  the  world,  but  of  course 
always  ready  for  a  duel,  particularly  with  a  professor.  Professors  of 
all  kinds  have  always  been,  more  or  less,  jealous  of  each  other,  but  the 
maitres  d'armes  of  that  period  were  peculiarly  and  aggressively  so. 

AVell,  Thimecourt  and  Monthiach  had  some  slight  difference  about 


78  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

a  coup,  and,  naturally,  as  they  disagreed  completely,  the  only  way  to 
come  to  an  understanding  was  to  light  it  out. 

They  fought  with  broadswords,  because  it  was  about  that  weapon 
that  they  had  disagreed.  The  duel  was  short,  sharp,  and  decisive. 
At  the  first  pass,  Monthiach  made  a  terribly  vicious  cut  at  his  adver- 
sary, evidently  intended  to  cut  off  his  head  at  one  blow.  The  coup 
was  admirably  conceived  and  executed. 

Thimecourt,  who  had  his  OAvn  idea,  did  not  parry  with  his  sword, 
but  dodged.  His  hat  was  cut  clear  in  two,  Monthiach' s  blade  grazing 
his  scalp.  At  the  same  time  the  Frenchman,  passing  under  his  adver- 
sary's sword,  opened  his  breast  with  a  splendid  coup  de  pointe.  The 
seconds  interfered.  The  gash  was  a  frightful  one,  and  the  blood  flowed 
freely,  yet  the  German  professor  insisted  upon  going  on  with  the  fight. 
The  seconds,  however,  would  not  permit  it. 

They  had  taken  no  surgeon  with  them,  and  Monthiach,  to  the 
horror  of  the  bystanders,  pulled  out  some  tow  which  he  had  in  his 
pocket,  and  packing  his  wound  with  it,  to  stop  the  flow  of  blood, 
walked  home  in  a  frenzy  of  anger,  cursing  at  the  seconds  who  had 
stopped  the  fight,  for,  as  he  said,  it  was  a  beautiful  coup,  and  he  would 
have  assuredly  chopped  off  Thimecourt' s  head  if  he  had  had  a  chance 
to  renew  it.  Three  days  after  he  was  on  parade,  marching,  musket  in 
hand,  in  the  ranks  of  the  "  Fusiliers,"  a  German  militia  company,  then 
commanded  by  Captain  Daniel  Friedrich. 

There  was  not  a  day  passed  without  one  or  two  encounters  at  the 
oaks  or  elsewhere.  The  spirit  of  the  age  might  have  been  expressed 
in  Don  Ca3sar  de  Bazan's  terse  saying  in  Victor's  Hugo's  Ruy  Bias  : 

"  Quand  je  tiens  un  bon  duel  je  ne  le  lache  pas." 

Old  citizens  who  lived  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  oaks  say  that 
for  a  time  it  was  a  daily  procession  of  pilgrims  to  this  bloody  Mecca. 
Some  of  them  walked  or  rode  back,  others  were  carried  home  for 
burial,  but  once  on  the  field,  honor  required  that  some  blood  should  be 
spilt.  Sometimes  it  was  a  drop  only,  sometimes  a  draining  of  the 
veins. 

The  following  double  anecdote  is  typical  of  the  manners  and  cus- 
toms of  the  period : 

Mr.  Hughes  Pedesclaux  was  a  tall,  muscular,  and  athletic  young 
man,  whole-souled  and  popular,  but  somewhat  quick-tempered ;  brave 
as  all  of  his  race,  and  skilled  in  the  use  of  arms. 

Mr.  Donatien  Augustin  was  a  tall,  slim  young  lawyer,  a  great 
student,  fond  of  his  profession,  but  fond  also  of  the  military.  Both 
were  attached  to  the  "  Canonniers  d'Orleans,"  a  crack  artillery  com- 
pany of  those  days.  Augustin  had  just  been  made  a  lieutenant,  and 
was  rather  proud  of  his  uniform  and  trailing  artillery  sabre.  Parade 


THE  OAKS.  79 

had  just  been  dismissed  ;  Pedesclaux  came  up  to  his  friend  Augustin  (a 
child  whom  he  had  bullied  and  spanked  at  the  "College  d'Orleans"1), 
and  jovially,  but  irreverently,  gave  a  deprecatory  kick  to  the  swagger- 
ing weapon,  saying : 

"  What  could  you  do  with  this  thing  ? " 

Quick  as  a  flash  came  the  retort : 

"Follow  me  a  few  paces  to  some  quiet  place,  and  I  will  show 
you!" 

]S"ot  a  word  more  was  said ;  each  man  picked  up  two  friends  to  act 
as  seconds,  and  forthwith,  followed  by  the  delighted  crowd,  eager  for 
the  sight  of  a  scrimmage,  marched  to  the  scene  of  combat. 

In  those  days  New  Orleans  \vas  not  extensively  built,  and  fighters 
not  very  particular  about  time  or  place.  A  convenient  spot  was  soon 
reached,  the  adversaries  doffed  their  uniforms,  stripped  to  their  shirt 
sleeves,  and  drew  their  weapons.  The  seconds,  after  placing  them  in 
position  and  enjoining  each  to  do  his  duty  as  a  gentleman,  uttered  the 
sacramental  words,  "  Allez,  messieurs"  and  to  it  they  went  with  a  will. 

Pedesclaux  was  in  the  full  vigor  of  manhood  and  skilled  in  sword- 
play  ;  Augustin  was  a  mere  youth,  with  little  experience  in  arms,  but 
very  active  and  willing.  As  luck  would  have  it,  after  a  few  passes  he 
cut  his  redoubtable  adversary  in  the  sword-arm. 

The  seconds  interfered ;  there  was  a  great  shaking  of  hands,  and 
the  incident  ended  in  a  gay  and  plentiful  dinner  at  Victor's  on  Tou- 
louse Street. 

Some  time  afterwards,  Pedesclaux  had  a  quarrel  with  a  retired 
French  cavalry  officer,  reputed  as  a  duellist.  The  cartel  was  passed 
between  the  parties  with  due  solemnity,  and  the  Frenchman,  having 
the  choice  of  weapons,  selected  broadswords,  on  horseback.  They 
fought  on  a  plain  in  the  rear  of  the  second  district,  known  as  "  La 
Plaine  Raquette,"  on  account  of  the  peculiar  game  of  ball  which  used 
to  be  played  there. 

An  eye-witness  says  :  "  It  was  a  handsome  sight.  The  adversaries 
were  mounted  on  spirited  horses  and  stripped  to  the  waist.  As  they 
rode  up  to  each  other,  nerved  for  the  combat,  their  respective  muscu- 
lar development  and  the  confidence  of  their  bearing  gave  promise  of 
an  interesting  fight.  The  Frenchman  was  heavy  and  somewhat  un- 
gainly, but  his  muscles  looked  like  whip-cord,  and  his  broad,  hairy 
chest  gave  evidence  of  remarkable  strength  and  endurance.  Pedes- 
claux, somewhat  lighter  in  weight,  was  admirably  proportioned,  and 
his  youthful  suppleness  seemed  to  more  than  counterbalance  his  adver- 
sary's brawny  but  somewhat  rigid  manhood. 

"  A  clashing  of  the  steel,  which  drew  sparks  from  the  blades,  and 
the  two  adversaries  crossed  and  passed  each  other  by  unhurt.  In 


80  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

a  moment,  both  horses  had  been  vaulted  to  face  each  other  by  the 
expert  riders,  and  the  enemies  met  again.  A  terrible  head  blow  from 
the  Frenchman  would  now  have  cleft  Pedesclaux  to  the  shoulder- 
blade,  if  his  quick  sword  had  not  warded  off  the  death  stroke.  It 
was  then  that,  with  lightning  rapidity,  before  his  adversary  could 
recover  his  guard,  which  had  been  disturbed  by  the  momentum  of  his 
blow,  the  Creole,  by  a  rapid  half  circle,  regained  his,  and  with  a  well- 
directed  coup  de  pointe  a  droite  (having  taken  care  to  keep  his  adver- 
sary to  the  right)  plunged  his  blade  through  the  body  of  the  French 
officer,  who  reeled  in  his  saddle,  fell,  and  was  picked  up  senseless  and 
bleeding  by  his  friends.  He  died  soon  afterward." 

Another  duel  on  horseback,  which  was  much  talked  about  at  the 
time,  was  fought  with  cavalry  sabres  by  Alexander  Cuvillier  and  Lieu- 
tenant Schomberg  of  the  United  States  Cavalry.  They  had  a  quar- 
rel, which  terminated  in  a  street  fight,  the  result  of  which  was  that 
Cuvillier  was  wounded  by  Schomberg  with  a  sword  cane. 

As  soon  as  he  had  sufficiently  recovered  from  his  injuries,  Cuvillier 
sent  Messrs.  Smile  Lasere  and  Mandeville  de  Marigny  with  a  cartel  to 
Schomberg,  who  immediately  accepted  it,  choosing  broadswords,  on 
horseback.  They  fought  on  D'Aquin  Green,  a  little  above  Carrollton. 
After  the  second  pass,  Cuvillier  made  a  vicious  cut  at  his  adversary, 
which,  falling  short,  or  being  otherwise  miscalculated,  severed  the 
jugular  vein  of  Schomberg's  horse,  that  fell  and  died  on  the  spot. 

This  put  a  stop  to  the  duel. 

Sometime  afterward  Alexander  Cuvillier  died,  and  his  brother, 
Adolphe  Cuvillier,  who  had  charge  of  his  succession,  received  a  letter 
from  Schomberg.  This  letter  recalled  the  duel,  saying  that  the  horse 
which  had  been  killed  in  the  fight  belonged  to  his  Colonel,  that  it  was 
worth  five  hundred  dollars,  which  he  had  had  to  reimburse,  and  hint- 
ing that  it  would  certainly  be  proper  for  Mr.  Cuvillier  to  pay  him 
back  at  least  half  that  amount.  Mr.  Adolphe  Cuvillier  wrote  back, 
saying  that  his  brother  was  dead,  and  that  he  had  accepted  the  suc- 
cession, and  had  charge  of  all  his  brother's  business,  this  quarrel,  of 
course,  included ;  that  he  would  cheerfully  send  a  check  for  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars,  as  testamentary  executor  of  his  brother,  and  as 
such,  would  also  be  exceedingly  willing  to  pay  full  price  for  another 
horse  if  the  lieutenant  agreed  to  renew  the  fight  with  him.  He  never 
received  any  answer. 

It  would  seem  that  Donatien  Augustin,  who  was  later  in  his  life 
judge  of  one  of  the  district  courts,  General  of  the  Louisiana  Legion, 
and  one  of  the  most  highly  esteemed  and  conservative  of  our  citizens, 
was  lucky  in  the  few  duels  in  which  the  temper  of  the  period  caused 
him  to  be  engaged.  Two  of  his  adversaries  each  killed  his  man  in 


THE  OAKS.  81 

subsequent  encounters :  Pedesclaux,  as  above  stated,  and  Saintmanat, 
with  whom  he  harmlessly  exchanged  one  or  two  pistol  shots  in  a 
slight  quarrel,  who  afterward  killed  Azenor  Bosque  in  a  duel,  also 
with  pistols,  and  subsequently,  with  similar  weapons,  grievously 
wounded  Commodore  Riebaud. 

The  following  affair,  which  he  had  with  Alexander  Grailhe,  is  told 
here  on  account  of  the  interest  connected  with  Grailhe's  luck  in  a 
subsequent  encounter.  The  cause  of  the  quarrel  is  at  this  day  of  small 
concern.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  after  the  insult,  or  rather  provocation, 
had  passed  (for  in  those  days  gentlemen  rarely  insulted),  and  each  was 
sure  that  a  deadly  meeting  was  to  follow,  the  two  gentlemen  travelled 
together  in  a  carriage  with  ladies,  who  wondered,  after  the  duel,  at 
their  mutual  affability  during  the  whole  trip. 

They  met  with  colichemardes  at  the  oaks.  Grailhe,  highly  bred, 
and  under,  as  he  deemed,  grievous  provocation,  as  soon  as  the  weap- 
ons had  been  crossed,  and  the  impressive  Allez,  messieurs,  had  been 
pronounced,  lost  his  temper  and  furiously  charged  his  antagonist. 
Augustin,  cool,  collected,  and  agile,  parried  and  evaded  each  savage 
thrust,  till  finally,  by  a  temps  d'arret,  judiciously  interpolated  into  a 
terrific  lunge  of  Grailhe,  pierced  him  through  and  through  the  chest. 

One  of  the  lungs  had  been  perforated.  Grailhe  remained  for  a 
long  time  between  life  and  death,  and  at  last  came  out  of  his  room, 
but  bent  forward  like  an  old  man.  The  physicians  despaired  of  his 
life,  for  an  internal  abscess,  which  could  scarcely  be  reached,  had 
formed ;  and  it  was  now  for  the  wounded  man  only  a  question  of 
time  and  chance.  The  latter  divinity  came  to  his  rescue  in  a  most 
remarkable  and  original  manner. 

He  quarrelled  with  Colonel  Mandeville  de  Marigny,  and  they  met 
at  the  oaks.  The  weapons  were  pistols  at  fifteen  paces,  two  shots 
each,  advance  five  paces,  and  fire  at  will.  Grailhe  advanced  three  or 
four  steps,  Marigny  remaining  perfectly  still,  and  both  fired  simulta- 
neously. Grailhe  fell,  pierced  through  the  body,  exactly  in  the  place 
of  his  former  and  yet  unhealed  wound,  the  ball  lodging  directly 
against  the  spinal  column.  Marigny,  pistol  in  hand,  advanced,  cool 
as  a  piece  of  marble,  to  the  utmost  limit  marked  out,  when  Grailhe, 
who  was  suffering  dire  pain,  exclaimed : 

"Achevez  moi  !  " 

Marigny  lifted  his  pistol  high  above  his  head,  and  firing  into  the 
air,  said : 

"  I  never  strike  a  fallen  enemy ! " 

Grailhe  was  carried  home  more  of  a  corpse  than  a  living  being ; 
but,  sooth  to  say,  the  ball  had  pierced  the  smouldering  abscess  that 
threatened  his  life,  had  opened  an  exit  for  its  poisonous  accumula- 


82  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

tions,  and  the  wounded  man,  some  time  afterward,  walked  out  of 
his  room  as  erect  and  stately  as  ever.  Thus  for  once  did  the  mes- 
senger of  death  bring  life  and  health. 

Poor  Frank  Yat'es  was  less  fortunate  in  his  affair  with  Joe 
Chandler,  some  time  in  1859.  A  lie,  reported  by  an  injudicious  friend, 
brought  a  cartel,  and  it  Avas  agreed  that  the  young  men  should  fight 
with  duelling  pistols  at  ten  paces.  The  fight  was  to  take  place  in  the 
afternoon,  under  the  oaks  at  the  Metairie;  but  the  duellists  were 
interfered  with  there  by  the  police,  so  they  repaired  to  a  place  far- 
ther on,  near  Bayou  St.  John,  whence  they  were  again  driven  away 
by  the  officers  of  the  law.  It  was  now  getting  late ;  a  drizzling  rain 
had  set  in,  and  it  was  urgent  to  bring  matters  to  an  issue  before 
night ;  so  principals  and  seconds  jumped  out  of  their  carriages  at  a 
place  somewhere  at  the  foot  of  Bienville  Street,  where  preparations 
were  promptly  made  for  the  fight  and  the  principals  placed  in  position. 

Night  was  coming  on  apace,  and  the  drizzling  rain  added  to  the 
gloomy  and  desolate  appearance  of  the  surroundings.  The  pistols 
were  loaded,  handed  to  the  principals,  and  the  command  given  to  fire. 
TAVO  shots  were  exchanged  with  no  effect,  and  an  attempt  was  made 
by  Chandler's  seconds  to  settle  the  matter ;  but  this  was  resisted  by 
the  opposite  side,  and  a  third  shot  became  necessary.  Both  fired  at 
the  same  time,  and  Frank  Yates  fell.  Chandler's  ball  had  struck  him 
in  the  side,  ranging  upward  through  the  bowels.  He  died  a  few  days 
afterward. 

The  population  of  New  Orleans  has  always  been  fond  of  music, 
and  particularly  of  the  opera,  which  in  its  palmy  days  it  lavishly 
sustained.  The  Creoles,  extreme  in  all  things,  carried  this  taste  to 
the  limits  of  passion.  Many  a  deadly  duel  grew  out  of  simple  dis- 
cussions over  the  merits  of  individual  singers.  It  would  take  a  vol- 
ume to  recite  the  various  quarrels  that  were  engendered  by  the  opera. 
Journalistic  critics,  of  course,  who  published  their  opinions,  had  to 
bear  the  brunt  and  be  ever  ready  to  back  an  article  with  steel  or  lead. 

Many  still  living,  and  even  who  would  not  like  to  be  called  old, 
remember  two  delightful  artistes  who  flourished  here  during  the 
season  of  1857-58,  under  Mr.  Boudousquie's  administration ;  namely, 
Mile.  Bourgeois,  a  contralto  of  great  dramatic  talent,  and  Mine. 
Colson,  one  of  the  wittiest  and  most  fascinating  of  light  soprani.  It 
must  be  added  that  Mme.  Colson  had  replaced  as  chanteuse  leyere  a 
Mme.  Preti-Baille,  who  was  a  very  pretty  woman,  a  singer  of  great 
technical  accomplishments,  but  cold  as  an  icicle,  and  therefore  not 
popular  with  the  general  public.  She  was  a  great  friend  of  Mile. 
Bourgeois.  It  is  useless  to  add  that  there  was  no  love  lost  between 
Mme.  Colson  and  the  contralto. 


THE  OAKS.  83 

This  Mile.  Bourgeois  made  it  a  point  to  show,  on  the  occasion  of 
her  benefit  night,  for  which  she  had  chosen  Victor  Masse's  opera  of 
Galathee,  when,  instead  of  asking  Mme.  Colson,  in  whose  reper- 
toire the  title  role  undoubtedly  was,  she  went  outside  of  the  company, 
and  asked  Mme.  Preti-Baille,  who  was  then  in  the  city  giving  music 
lessons,  to  sing  the  part.  The  announcement  created  great  feeling 
among  opera-goers,  and  was  warmly  discussed  in  the  clubs.  Mme. 
Colson  was  very  much  liked  and  admired,  and  her  partisans,  feeling 
outraged  at  the  insult,  as  they  deemed,  thus  put  upon  her,  swore  that 
Preti-Baille  would  not  be  permitted  to  sing.  The  friends  of  Bourgeois 
swore  on  their  side  that  it  was  not,  after  all,  the  woman's  fault,  and 
that  those  who  hissed  her  would  rue  it.  That  threat  was  sufficient  in 
those  days  to  create  an  army  of  hissers. 

The  matter,  as  before  stated,  was  largely  discussed  at  the  clubs,  on 
the  streets,  and  at  the  salle  d'armes.  In  one  of  the  latter  places 
Emile  Bozonier  and  Gaston  de  Coppens,  two  of  the  most  popular 
young  fellows  of  the  day,  were  with  a  number  of  others  practising 
with  foils,  or  lounging.  Of  course  Bourgeois'  benefit  night  was  the 
topic  of  conversation.  Some  said  that  Preti-Baille  should  be  hissed, 
others  that  it  would  be  a  shame.  Bozonier  said  nothing  (it  is  probable 
that  he  did  not  care  much  one  way  or  the  other).  Suddenly  Coppens, 
turning  to  him,  said  : 

"  What  do  you  say  about  this,  Bozonier  ? " 

"  I,"  was  the  deliberate  answer,  "  think  that  a  man  who  goes  to  the 
theatre  for  the  purpose  of  hissing  a  woman  is  a  blackguard  and  should 
have  his  face  slapped !  " 

Coppens  grew  pale. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  retorted,  "  that  I  have  proclaimed  myself  one 
of  those  who  will  hiss  that  woman  down  ? " 

"  No,"  Bozonier  replied,  "  but  I  nevertheless  mean  what  I  said." 

"  Would  you  slap  a  man's  face  who  hisses  on  that  occasion  ? " 

"  If  he  is  close  enough  to  me,  I  assuredly  will,"  answered  Bozonier, 
now  thoroughly  aroused  and  interested. 

"  Well,  you  will  have  your  hands  full,"  said  Coppens,  and  the  mat- 
ter was  dropped. 

And  so  the  benefit  night  came  on.  The  opera  house  on  Orleans 
Street  was  crowded  to  suffocation,  and  it  was  evident,  from  the  excited 
and  determined  looks  of  the  young  men  present,  that  a  fire  was  smoul- 
dering all  through  that  audience.  Mile.  Bourgeois  was  the  Pygmalion, 
and  nothing  special  happened  until  the  curtain  covering  the  statue  was 
drawn  aside  and  Galathee  began  to  live  and  move. 

Then  there  arose  such  an  antagonistic  cacophony  of  hisses  from, 
one  side,  and  applause  from  the  other,  as  has  rarely  been  heard  in  an 


84  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

opera  house.  Cold  as  marble  and  all  as  white,  but  apparently  unmoved, 
the  singer,  amid  the  growing  tumult,  which  never  ceased  till  the  curtain 
fell,  sang  all  her  numbers  undaunted,  braver  than  any  hero  who  ever 
repelled  an  assault  or  led  a  charge.  And  so  on  all  along,  also,  during 
the  second  act  and  until  the  final  drop  of  the  curtain. 

Little,  indeed,  did  anybody  that  evening  hear  of  Masse's  music, 
most  of  the  ladies,  of  course,  having  deserted  long  before  the  end.  In 
that  encounter  of  hisses  and  plaudits  several  quarrels  were  picked  up 
by  the  young  bloods,  which  ended  at  the  oaks  or  elsewhere,  but  we 
are  now  preoccupied  with  only  one. 

Coppens  had  hissed,  and  Bozonier  had  seen  him,  but  they  were 
separated  by  a  dense  crowd ;  only  their  eyes  met  and  a  sign  of  defi- 
ance was  passed.  "A  day  or  so  afterward,  Bozonier  met  Coppens,  who 
crossed  over  the  street  to  him,  smiling  under  a  sneer,  and  accosted 
him  with : 

"  Well,  Bozonier,  what  about  those  slaps  ? " 

Bozonier  was  of  herculean  strength,  and  his  answer  was  a  buffet 
which  sent  Coppens  sprawling  in  the  street.  Quick  as  lightning,  and 
agile  as  a  cat,  Coppens  got  up  and  grasped  for  his  weapons,  but  Bozo- 
nier was  too  powerful  for  him,  and  soon  had  placed  it  out  of  his  power 
to  use  either  knife  or  pistol.  A  few  days  afterwards,  Bozonier  had 
received  a  challenge,  and  being  skilled  neither  in  the  use  of  rapier 
nor  pistol,  chose  cavalry  sabres. 

They  fought  at  the  oaks,  within  pistol  shot  of  Allard's  tomb. 

Bozonier  was  a  trifle  above  the  middle  height,  but  remarkably 
active  and  muscular.  Coppens  was  small  in  stature,  but  wiry  and  of 
feline  activity.  Both  were  dandies  in  dress  and  lions  in  courage. 

In  a  twinkling  the  coats  were  on  the  grass.  The  principals  were 
placed  in  position,  and  the  usual  recommendations  made  by  the  sec- 
onds, comprising  the  instructions  that  the  fight  was  to  last  till  one  of 
the  adversaries  should  be  completely  disabled. 

The  first  pass  was  terrible ;  Bozonier  engaged  Coppens  in  tierce, 
made  a  feint,  then  taking  advantage  of  the  movement  of  his  adversary 
to  parry,  rapidly  passed  over  his  sword  and  made  a  swinging  stroke 
at  him,  which  would  inevitably  have  severed  his  head  from  his  body, 
had  not  Coppens,  by  a  timely  movement,  warded  off  partly  the  effect 
of  the  blow.  But  there  was  vigor  to  spare  in  the  cut,  for  Coppens 
fell,  the  blood  spurting  like  water  from  a  terrible  gash  on  the  cheek 
and  a  severe  cut  in  the  chest. 

It  was  lucky  for  him  at  that  moment  that  Bozonier' s  generous  soul 
prevented  him  following  up  his  advantage,  for  he  had  his  foe  at  his 
mercy.  He  paused  till  Coppens  rose.  This  rise  was -the  spring  of  a 
wounded  tiger;  a  furious  coup  de pointe  penetrated  Bozonier's  sword- 


THE  OAKS.  85 

arm  above  the  elbow,  cutting  the  muscles  and  disabling  him.  Then 
Coppens  had  it  all  his  own  way,  though  his  plucky  adversary  did  -his 
best,  handicapped  as  he  was  by  his  now  almost  useless  arm,  which 
could  scarcely  hold  the  weapon.  The  seconds  did  not  see  his  terrible 
position  in  time,  neither  could  his  furious  foe  appreciate  it,  and  before 
the  former  could  interfere,  Bozonier  had  received  two  deep  cuts  in  the 
chest,  a  terrible  slash  in  the  left  arm,  and  a  fearful  coup  depointe  in 
the  side.  He  was  bleeding  at  every  pore. 

Happily  for  his  many  friends,  his  strong  constitution  saved  him, 
and  he  lives  yet,  though  four  years  of  war,  superadded  to  this  fearful 
hashing,  have  left  but  a  comparative  wreck  from  his  once  splendid 
physique. 

Coppens,  who  was  afterward  colonel  of  the  Louisiana  Zouaves, 
died  like  a  soldier  at  the  battle  of  Seven  Pines,  flag  in  hand,  forty 
yards  in  front  of  his  command,  while  gallantly  leading  a  Florida 
regiment,  after  his  own  had  been  cut  to  pieces. 

At  the  period  referred  to,  the  opera  season  lasted  six  months,  and 
such  was  the  inclination  of  our  people  for  this  kind  of  music  that  the 
interest  remained  unabated  to  the  end.  So  a  month  or  so  after  the 
duel  just  narrated,  a  violent  critique  from  the  pen  of  Emile  Hiriart, 
who  was  writing  for  the  True  Delta,  appeared  in  the  columns  of  that 
sheet.  Hiriart,  who  was  a  very  trenchant  writer,  had  smote,  as  it 
seems,  right  and  left,  and  spared  no  one. 

The  very  same  day  he  received  two  challenges — one  from  Mr. 
Placide  Canonge,  now  the  highly  polished  art  and  musical  critic  of 
the  New  Orleans  Bee,  and  one  from  Mr.  E.  Locquet,  both  of  whom 
had  taken  exceptions  to  the  article.  He  accepted  both. 

Mr.  Canonge's  challenge  having  priority,  he  was  first  attended  to. 
They  fought  with  pistols  at  ten  yards,  and  exchanged  three  shots, 
each  shot  of  Hiriart's  cutting  Mr.  Canonge's  clothes,  and  that  gentle- 
man receiving  those  leaden  warnings  with  the  utmost  composure  and 
the  sweetest  of  smiles.  Their  seconds  thereupon  withdrew  them,  and 
the  matter  between  them  was  settled. 

A  few  days  after,  Hiriart  was  out  again  with  his  faithful  seconds, 
this  time  to  answer  Locquet's  challenge. 

There  was  more  underlying  this  meeting  than  the  conventional 
chivalry  of  the  "  point  of  honor."  There  was  hate  between  the  two, 
and  a  deadly  purpose,  as  was  evidenced  by  the  choice  of  weapon — 
double-barrelled  shotguns  loaded  with  ball,  distance  forty  paces.  In 
the  hands  of  Creole  gentlemen,  who  were  all  practised  hunters,  this 
weapon  was  the  deadliest.  It  was  rare  that  both  parties  survived  an 
encounter  of  this  kind.  Often  the  two  adversaries  were  killed,  and 
almost  invariably  one  was  carried  away  from  the  field  a  corpse. 


86  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

Seconds  rarely  permitted  the  use  of  the  shotgun,  unless  under  the 
gravest  provocation. 

The  preliminaries  of  a  duel  are  always  solemn,  but  here  an  atmos- 
phere of  awe  pervaded  the  scene,  as,  in  silence,  the  ground  was  meas- 
ured, the  principals  placed  in  position,  the  weapons  loaded  and  handed 
to  them  by  their  seconds.  Both  were  calm  and  apparently  unmoved ; 
but  the  set  chin,  the  firm  lip,  the  eye  coldly  gleaming,  told  of  deadly 
passion  and  intent. 

Hiriart's  friends  had  tossed,  as  is  customary,  for  the  word  of  com- 
mand, and  won  it.  In  a  close  contest  like  this  one — for  both  were 
excellent  shots  and  men  of  recognized  nerve — this  was  considered  a 
great  advantage. 

The  word  was  given :  "  Fire !  one,  two,  three !  " 

Hiriart  fired  between  the  command  and  "one";  Locquet  at  the 
word  "  one,"  but  it  was  not  a  second's  difference. 

Locquet  turned  completely  around,  leaped  in  the  air,  and  fell  flat 
on  his  face,  without  a  word  or  cry. 

Hiriart  made  a  half  pivot,  exclaimed  "  I  am  done  for,"  and  fell  on 
his  hands  apparently  lifeless. 

The  mutual  friends  and  surgeons  rushed  to  their  principals.  Loc- 
quet was  dead.  The  ball  had  penetrated  the  brain. 

Hiriart's  life  had  been  saved,  it  appears,  by  his  quick  firing,  which 
did  not  allow  his  adversary  time  enough  to  raise  his  weapon  to  a  suffi- 
cient elevation,  for  his  shot  was  dead  in  line.  The  ball  had  ploughed  the 
ground  Avithin  about  fifteen  feet  of  Hiriart,  then  glanced  up  and  struck 
him  in  the  stomach.  A  welt  of  the  size  of  a  duck's  egg  Avas  disclosed 
on  his  body,  black  and  protruding,  Avhile  the  skin  Avas  but  slightly 
abrased ;  the  ball  Avas  found  in  the  lining  of  his  coat.  He  recovered 
after  a  feAv  days'  seclusion. 

Several  memorable  duels  Avith  shotguns  are  chronicled  Avith  letters 
of  blood,  among  Avhich  are  the  unfortunate  affair  in  AA^hich  John  de 
Buys  killed  young  Castaing ;  the  one  in  Avhich  Alpuente,  fighting  also 
Avith  De  Buys,  Avas  saved  from  death  by  a  tAventy-dollar  gold  piece 
Avhich  he  had  forgotten  in  his  vest  pocket,  and  Avhich  arrested  the 
too  true  course  of  the  ball ;  the  duel  in  Avhich  Kora  killed  Dauphin ; 
the  affair  betAA^een  Arthur  Guillotte  and  Piseros,  in  Avhich  the  latter 
had  a  lung  perforated  and  Avas  disabled ;  the  fatal  meeting  betAveen 
George  White  and  Packenham  Le  Blanc,  in  Avhich  Le  Blanc  AAras  killed 
outright ;  the  meeting  in  Avhich  General  SeAvell  killed  Thomas  Cane, 
and  other  fatal  affairs. 

A  duel  Avhich,  at  the  time,  created  quite  a  sensation,  was  the  affair 
betAveen  John  de  Buys  and  Aristide  Gerard,  in  Avhich  the  former 
received  fourteen  Avounds  at  Gerard's  hands.  They  fought  Avith 


THE  OAKS.  87 

colichemardes.  De  Buys,  though  the  best  of  fellows,  was  fearfully 
quick-tempered  and  had  fought  some  twenty-four  duels,  with  more  or 
less  success,  three  or  four  of  which  with  his  mortal  foe,  Octave  Le  Blanc. 
The  quarrel  with  Gerard  happened  at  Belanger's  Billiard  Hall,  at  the 
corner  of  Orleans  and  Royal  Streets. 

A  fatal  duel  with  colichemardes  was  that  in  which  Amaron  Ledoux 
killed  a  Frenchman  named  De  Chevremont. 

It  would  be  possible  to  go  on  thus  indefinitely,  but,  for  the  purposes 
of  this  writing,  the  cases  cited  are  more  than  sufficient. 

Whatever  modernists  may  say,  with  great  reason,  against  the 
duello,  for  it  led  to  many  deplorable  abuses,  there  was  more  in  the 
institution  than  a  mere  agreement  to  fight,  or  even  than  in  that  relic 
of  medieval  barbarism,  the  "trial  by  combat."  It  was  in  many 
instances  an  impediment  to  bloodshed.  Friends  quarrelled  in  moment- 
ary excitement,  and  instead  of  seeking  personal  explanation,  which,  in 
high-strung  people,  is  impossible  under  provocation,  intrusted  mutual 
friends  with  the  demand  of  satisfaction.  If  the  seconds  were  wise, 
calm  explanation  would  follow,  and  the  trifle  was  adjusted.  The  duties 
of  the  seconds  were  of  paramount  importance,  for  they  assumed  every 
responsibility,  and  were  made  answerable  for  the  life  or  honor  of  the 
principals  at  the  bar  of  public  opinion. 

The  duello,  however,  had  a  refining  influence,  for  every  gentleman 
was  forced  to  be  guarded  in  his  language  and  behavior,  as  he  well 
knew  that  bare  brutal  courage  was  not  sufficient  to  carry  him  trium- 
phantly through.  .  It  is  true  that  a  gentleman  was  obliged  to  fight, 
but  he  had  to  fight  well — that  is,  for  reason,  and  under  plausible  and 
legitimate  conditions,  stanch  enough  to  hold  the  current  of  public 
opinion.  Otherwise  he  was  quickly  ostracised,  and  society  sustained 
all  who  refused  to  cross  swords  or  exchange  shots  with  him.  The  code 
was  very  strict.  You  could  not  fight  a  man  whom  you  could  not  ask 
to  your  house. 

This  is  not  an  apology  of  the  duello,  which  is  now  out  of  fashion 
and  even  become  absurd,  if  it  were  only  by  reason  of  the  almost  total 
indifference  of  public  opinion  in  its  regard.  It  does  not  much  matter 
nowadays  if  a  man  fights  or 'not. 

We  have  other  ways  of  proving  ourselves  gentlemen. 

The  purpose  here  is  only  to  recall  a  brilliant,  though  not  altogether 
faultless  epoch  of  Louisiana  history,  to  show  what  reason  our  fathers 
had  in  their  madness,  and  point  out  the  lessons  that  may  be  profitably 
gathered  by  discriminating  minds  under  the  leafy  shades  of  the  oaks. 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT 
IN  ITS  DIPLOMACY  WITH  FOREIGN  NATIONS, 
ESPECIALLY  WITH  ENGLAND  AND  FRANCE. 

[From  The  Military  Operations  of  General  Beauregard.     Copyright,  1883,  by 
Harper  &  Brothers.] 

BY    ALFRED    ROMAN. 

[ALFRED  ROMAN,  second  son  of  Governor  Andre  Bienvenu  Roman,  was  born  in 
St.  James  Parish,  La.,  in  1824.  In  youth  he  studied  at  Jefferson  College.  At  the  age 
of  twenty-one  he  was  admitted  to  the  Louisiana  bar.  He  served  with  honor  in  the 
Confederate  Army  (1861-65).  In  1880  Governor  Wiltz  appointed  him  Judge  of  the 
Criminal  Court  of  New  Orleans,  Section  A,  for  a  term  of  eight  years.  Of  his  well-known 
work,  The  Military  Operations  of  General  Beauregard.  (1883),  Charles  Gayarre  says  : 
"Henceforth,  of  our  Civil  War  it  will  be  impossible  to  write  the  history  without  taking 
this  valuable  contribution  into  the  most  serious  consideration."  Judge  Roman  died, 
September  20,  1892.] 

THE  diplomacy  of  the  Confederate  administration  consisted  of 
arguments  as  to  rights,  and  appeals  to  precedent.  The  arguments  set 
forth  the  origin,  construction,  and  federal  character  of  the  government 
of  the  United  States  under  its  Constitution,  supplemented  by  the  right 
claimed  by  all  free  people,  under  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  to 
alter  or  abolish  their  forms  of  government,  and  to  institute  such  new 
governments  "  as  to  them  shall  seem  most  likely  to  effect  their  safety 
and  happiness."  These  were  expected  to  justify  the  secession  of  the 
Southern  States,  and  the  formation  of  the  new  republican  government 
of  the  Confederate  States.  On  this  presentation  of  the  case  appeals 
were  made  to  the  monarchical  governments  of  Europe — not  at  all  in 
love  with  republicanism — to  recognize  the  independence  of  the  Con- 
federate States,  at  whatever  cost,  as  a  matter  of  moral  sentiment.  It 
was  further  insisted,  with  confidence,  that  "  cotton  is  king,"  and  that 
the  nations  of  Europe  were  dependent  on  the  South,  with  its  annual 
crops  of  cotton.  England,  especially,  with  her  eight  millions  of  factory 
hands,  could  not  afford  to  have  our  ports  closed,  and  must,  of  neces- 
sity, recognize  our  separate  existence  and  raise  the  blockade.  At  the 
same  time  it  was  persistently  sought  to  keep  the  Confederate  States 
commercially  independent  of  all  the  nations  of  Europe,  and  to  confer 
no  advantages  in  trade.  The  fact  seems  to  have  been  wholly  lost 
sight  of  by  the  administration,  that  England  had  large  interests  in  the 
cotton  culture  of  her  East  Indian  Empire ;  that  the  ruin  of  the  Con- 


Al.i'RED    ROMAN. 


THE  DIPLOMACY  OF  THE  CONFEDERATE  GOVERNMENT.        89 

federate  States  and  the  depression  of  rival  cotton  production  would 
stimulate  and  promote  British  independence  of  American  cotton ;  and 
that,  unless  compensatory  and  overbalancing  interests  in  trade  were 
tendered,  England  might  seek  commercial  freedom  by  non-interven- 
tion. 

The  efforts  of  the  Northern  States  to  preserve  the  Union  were  not 
inspired  by  love  of  the  Southern  people.  The  value  of  the  Union  to 
them  was  in  the  great  interests  developed  through  the  powers  of  the 
general  government,  exercised  by  the  Northern  majority  and  involv- 
ing Northern  prosperity.  The  war  was  waged  against  the  South  by 
the  North  to  retain  the  enormous  benefits  derivable  through  discrim- 
inating and  prohibitory  tariffs,  exclusive  navigation  laws,  and  unequal 
and  profligate  appropriations  from  the  common  treasury. 

The  people  of  the  South  had  long  struggled  for  ad  valorem  duties 
laid  for  revenue,  and  against  duties  discriminating  for  the  benefit  of 
classes  at  the  North.  In  1833  the  Union  was  nearly  dissolved  on  the 
ground  of  the  unconstitutionally,  inequality,  and  oppression  of  such 
taxes.  And,  in  framing  the  Confederate  constitution,  it  was  carefully 
provided  that  "  no  duties  or  taxes  on  importations  from  foreign  nations 
shall  be  laid  to  promote  or  foster  any  branch  of  industry ;  and  all 
duties,  imports,  and  excises  shall  be  uniform  throughout  the  Con- 
federate States." 

It  should  be  remembered  that,  during  eighteen  months,  the  question 
of  African  slavery  was  no  obstacle  to  foreign  relations.  The  United 
States  government  had  declared,  in  despatches  sent  to  its  ambassadors 
abroad,  that  the  war  Avas  made  to  save  the  Union  only,  and  to  main- 
tain all  the  rights  and  institutions  of  the  States  unchanged.  The  United 
States  Congress  announced  to  the  Confederate  States  and  to  the  world 
the  same  policy.  Thus  did  the  United  States  government  stand  before 
the  foreign  powers,  no  less  than  before  the  South,  as  the  supporter  of 
African  slavery,  until  September  22d,  1862.  Then,  as  a  war  measure 
to  cripple  the  South  and  assist  the  North  in  keeping  the  seceded 
States  in  the  Union,  President  Lincoln  issued  his  Proclamation  of 
Emancipation.  When  this  was  done  the  time  for  the  Confederate 
States  to  establish  friendly  relations  with  foreign  nations  had  passed. 

The  fact  should  not  be  overlooked  that  the  great  Conservative 
party  of  England — which,  to  a  considerable  extent,  represented  the 
land-holding  and  agricultural  interests  of  the  country,  formerly  led  by 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  and  Sir  Robert  Peel,  and  latterly  by  the  Earl 
of  Derby  and  Mr.  Disraeli — sympathized  deeply  with  the  conservative 
attitude  of  the  people  of  the  Confederate  States.  Although  not  in 
power  during  the  war,  the  Tory  party  was  strong  and  vigorous.  It 
retired  from  control  of  the  government,  Lord  Derby  and  Mr.  Disraeli 


90  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

resigning  in  June,  1859,  on  account  of  the  question  between  Austria 
and  Italy,  and  it  came  into  office  again,  succeeding  the  Palmerston- 
Eussell  administration,  in  June,  1866.  The  parties  were  nearly  bal- 
anced, and  any  blunder  on  the  part  of  one  placed  the  other  in  almost 
immediate  power. 

Soon  after  the  government  was  organized  the  Confederate  Congress 
unanimously  voted  the  appointment  of  commissioners,  to  be  sent  to 
Europe  to  negotiate  for  a  recognition  and,  in  the  event  of  war,  possibly, 
for  assistance.  The  Constitution  ordained  that  the  President  "  shall 
have  power,  by  and  with  the  advice  and  consent  of  the  Congress,  to 
make  treaties,  provided  two-thirds  of  the  Congress  concur ;  and  he 
shall  nominate  and,  by  and  with  the  advice  and  consent  of  the  Con- 
gress, shall  appoint  ambassadors,  other  public  ministers  and  consuls, 
etc."  Thus  was  the  treaty-making  power  vested  in  the  President ;  and 
Congress  had  no  authority  to  instruct  the  commissioners  or  to  shape 
their  negotiations. 

Statesmen  of  the  South  expected  that  the  commissioners  would  be 
sent  as  plenipotentiaries,  instructed  to  propose,  as  conditions  of  our 
recognition  and  alliance,  to  England,  France,  and  other  nations,  that 
the  Confederate  States,  for  twenty  years,  would  lay  no  higher  duties 
on  their  productions  imported  than,  say,  twenty  per  cent,  ad  valorem  ; 
that  for  the  same  period  no  tonnage  duties  would  be  laid  on  their 
shipping,  entering  or  leaving  our  ports,  except  what  should  be  suffi- 
cient to  keep  in  repair  our  harbors  and  rivers ;  that  the  coast  naviga- 
tion between  ports  of  the  Confederate  States,  during  this  time,  should 
be  free  to  them,  subject  only  to  police  regulations;  that  upon  the 
productions  and  tonnage  of  all  nations  refusing  to  recognize  our  inde- 
pendence there  should  be  imposed  a  discriminating  duty  of,  say,  ten 
per  cent,  additional ;  and  that,  if  necessary — but  not  otherwise — the 
Confederate  States  government  should  make  a  league,  offensive  and 
defensive,  with  special  guarantees — for  instance,  a  guarantee  to  Great 
Britain  of  British  America. 

The  tender  of  such  treaties  would  have  offered  immense  advantages 
to  England  and  to  France.  With  their  great  capital,  and  cheaper  and 
more  skilful  labor,  low  duties  for  twenty  years,  with  a  discrimination  of 
ten  per  cent,  against  their  competitors  for  the  markets  of  the  Confeder- 
ate States,  would  have  enabled  them  to  furnish  our  supplies  at  enormous 
profits ;  and  a  tariff  of  twenty  per  cent,  ad  valorem  would,  according 
to  experience,  have  yielded  to  our  government  the  largest  obtainable 
revenue,  without  in  any  way  oppressing  our  people.  The  lucrative 
carrying  trade  of  the  Confederate  States  on  the  high  seas,  and  the 
coasting  trade,  hardly  less  remunerative,  would  have  been  chiefly 
theirs,  with  less  cost  to  our  people. 


THE  DIPLOMACY  OF   THE  CONFEDERATE   GOVERNMENT.        91 

Would  the  Palmerston-Russell  ministry  have  ventured  to  decline 
such  a  proffer  of  mutual  benefits,  and  to  persist  in  the  policy  of  non- 
intervention ?  If  it  had,  then  the  subject  would  have  been  taken 
straight  into  Parliament,  with  almost  a  certainty  that  the  Whig  min- 
istry would  have  been  speedily  voted  down,  and  the  Conservative 
administration  of  Lord  Derby  and  Mr.  Disraeli  placed  in  power.  And 
there  can  be  little  doubt  that  that  administration  would  promptly 
have  entered  into  such  a  treaty.  Even  the  Whig  Foreign  Secretary, 
Lord  John  Russell,  openly  expressed  the  opinion  that  the  dissolution 
of  the  American  Union  would  be  permanent,  and  the  Confederate 
States  successful.  John  Bright,  the  Quaker  Radical,  and  Richard 
Cobden,  the  Independent  Liberal  of  the  Manchester  school  of  politics, 
then  supporting  the  Whig  administration,  represented  manufacturing 
constituencies,  and  were  noted  advocates  of  free  trade  and  low  duties. 
It  is  more  than  likely  that,  in  view  of  such  benefits,  their  prejudices 
against  the  South  and  partialities  for  the  North  would  have  been  nul- 
lified and  overridden  by  the  calls  of  unmistakable  and  gigantic  inter- 
est to  the  people  of  England.  The  Emperor  of  the  French,  Louis 
Napoleon,  was  friendly  in  feeling  to  the  South,  and  would  gladly 
have  joined  England  in  such  a  programme.  Without  such  induce- 
ments he  proposed  a  mediation  in  October,  1862. 

Under  the  action  of  the  Confederate  Congress  the  President  ap- 
pointed commissioners  to  Europe,  with  the  Hon.  William  L.  Yancey 
at  the  head  of  the  commission,  to  go  to  England.  But  the  instruc- 
tions given  him  were  not  such  as  the  past  policy  and  political  position 
occupied  by  the  South  naturally  suggested ;  not  such  as  Mr.  Yancey 
expected ;  not  such  as  the  Secretary  of  State,  the  Hon.  Robert  Toombs, 
advocated ;  and  not  such  as  other  leading  Southern  statesmen  deemed 
of  vital  importance  to  the  cause.  Instead  of  seeking  to  use  the  power 
of  laying  duties  and  passing  navigation  laws,  to  conciliate  the  support  of 
foreign  nations;  instead  of  using  the  treaty-making  power,  which 
was  paramount  to  the  legislative,  to  obtain  the  recognition  of  the 
independence  of  the  Confederate  States,  the  President  gave  no  author- 
ity to  the  commissioners  to  make  commercial  treaties,  or  to  agree  to 
confer  special  trade  or  navigation  interests.  The  commission  went 
without  powers.  It  had  nothing  to  propose  and,  therefore,  nothing 
to  treat  about.  The  administration  seemed  to  have  no  comprehension 
of  the  importance  of  appealing  to  the  interests  of  foreign  nations  for 
the  establishment  of  our  independence.  In  addition  to  abstract  dis- 
quisition it  appeared  to  rely  chiefly  on  compelling  England  by  her 
dependence  touching  the  supply  of  cotton  for  her  manufactories.  If 
there  was  really  superior  sagacity  in  forecasting  the  magnitude  of  the 
struggle  in  which  the  South  was  involved — which  has  been  claimed, 


92  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

but  which  plain  facts  go  far  to  refute — then  the  only  explanation  of 
this  unexpected  and  ultimately  fatal  policy,  on  the  part  of  President 
Davis,  appears  to  have  been  the  entertainment  of  a  design  by  him  to 
foster  manufacturing  classes  in  the  Confederate  States,  and  for  that 
purpose  to  hold  in  the  hands  of  the  government  the  power  of  dis- 
crimination in  laying  duties  on  foreign  commodities  to  the  utmost 
extent  practicable,  and  free  from  committals  by  treaties.  This  idea 
has  support  from  the  course  of  the  administration  in  regard  to  the 
obtainment  of  arms  and  munitions  of  war,  and  the  procurement  of  a 
navy. 

When  the  Confederate  commission  presented  itself  in  London  it 
was  received  by  the  British  Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs,  and  inter- 
views were  held  between  them.  But  Mr.  Yancey,  as  we  have  seen, 
was  powerless.  He  had  nothing  to  propose  or  to  treat  about.  So  when 
the  minister  of  the  United  States,  Mr.  C.  F.  Adams,  on  the  12th  of 
June,  1861,  expressed  the  "great  dissatisfaction"  of  his  government, 
coupled  with  a  threat  to  retaliate,  if  such  interviews  continued,  the 
British  Minister,  having  ascertained  that  it  was  the  policy  of  the 
Confederate  government  to  use  the  commercial  dependence  of  England 
to  obtain  compulsory  recognition,  and  to  make  no  treaties  conferring 
advantages  in  trade  or  commerce,  cut  short  further  official  intercourse. 
Not  until  November,  1861,  were  Messrs.  Mason,  Slidell,  Mann,  and 
Rost  sent  over  to  Europe.  And  they,  too,  had  only  arguments  to 
offer  concerning  legal  rights  and  precedents  unacceptable  to  mon- 
archies ;  and  they  accomplished  nothing.  Our  attempts  at  diplomacy 
were  an  egregious  failure.  In  the  language  of  the  chairman  of  the 
Committee  of  Foreign  Affairs,  in  the  Confederate  Senate,  from  1862 
to  1865 — the  Hon.  James  L.  Orr — "the  Confederate  States  had  no 
diplomacy." 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHILOH,  AND  THE  PART  PLAYED 
THEREIN  BY  HENRY  WATKINS  ALLEN,  EX-GOV- 
ERNOR OF  LOUISIANA. 

[From  Recollections  of  Henry  Watkins  Allen  (186G).J 
BY    SARAH    A.    DORSEY. 

[SARAH  ANNE  (ELLIS)  DORSEY  was  born  in  Natchez,  Miss.,  February  16,  1829.  Upon 
her  marriage  to  Samuel  W.  Dorse y,  a  planter  of  Tensas  Parish,  La.,  she  removed  to  her 
husband's  home.  In  1875,  after  the  death  of  Mr.  Dorsey,  she  went  to  live  at  Beauvoir. 
Miss.  She  died  in  New  Orleans,  July  4,  1879.  Her  works  include  Recollections  of 
Henry  Watkins  Allen  (1866);  Lucia  Dare  (1867);  Agnes  Graham  (1869);  Atalie;  or,  A 
Southern  Villeggiatura  (1871);  and  Panola:  a  Tale  of  Louisiana  (1877).] 

THE  morning  of  the  6th  of  April  dawned  before  Johnston  got  his 
lines  read}7"  for  battle.  Twenty-four  hours  had  been  lost  through  the 
rain  and  the  difficulty  of  moving  rapidly  his  undisciplined  levies  over 
the  heavy  roads.  The  enemy  were  encamped  along  a  broken  country, 
a  succession  of  hills  and  valleys — filled  with  woods,  interspersed  with 
an  occasional  open  field.  Their  principal  camp  was  near  a  log-cabin 
used  as  a  meeting-house,  called  "  Shiloh."  Their  line  stretched  away 
on  the  road  leading  from  Pittsburg  Landing  to  Corinth  ;  their  camps 
generally  located  in  the  small  open  fields,  scattered  at  intervals 
throughout  the  forest.  The  battle  was,  therefore,  necessarily  fought 
in  fractions ;  giving  opportunities  for  exhibitions  of  personal  courage 
and  deeds  of  heroic  daring,  always  eagerly  welcomed  by  Southern  men. 
Johnston  and  Beauregard  had  formed  the  army  in  three  parallel  lines 
of  battle — the  first  under  Hardee,  the  second  under  Bragg,  the  last 
under  Polk  and  Breckinridge ;  each  line  had  its  centre  and  two  flanks, 
protected  by  artillery  and  cavalry.  Johnston  was  with  the  second 
line  under  Bragg,  and  Beauregard  was  with  the  third  line  under  Polk 
and  Breckinridge.  This  resume  of  events  was  needful  in  order  to 
make  the  reader  understand  why  the  battle  of  Shiloh  was  fought — 
the  first  field  on  which  Henry  "W.  Allen  was  engaged  and  was  wounded 
in  the  service  of  the  country.  He  commanded  his  beloved  Fourth 
Louisiana,  in  the  line  of  Bragg.  He  was  overflowing  with  military 
ardor  and  eager  patriotism,  and  communicated  magnetically  his  ex- 
cited interest  to  his  regiment.  The  Fourth  Louisiana,  as  well  as  its 
colonel,  was  ready  for  anything.  The  night  previous,  talking  with 
some  of  my  relatives,  in  their  tent — discussing  the  probabilities  of  the 


94  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

morrow— Allen  said  very  gravely,  "  A  man  ought  always  to  expect  to 
be  killed  in  battle,  and  should  be  willing  and  prepared  for  death 
always  before  he  goes  into  it ; "  then  he  repeated  the  beautiful  invoca- 
tion to  death,  from  Halleck's  Marco  Bozzaris.  On  the  morning  of 
the  6th  he  was  ordered  by  Bragg  to  charge  a  battery  of  the  enemy, 
stationed  in  a  thicket ;  it  was  a  strong  position  on  an  eminence,  and 
the  guns  were  very  troublesome.  The  aide-de-camp,  who  took  the 
order  to  Allen,  says :  "  I  found  him  near  a  small  copse  or  bosquet  of 
woods.  He  received  the  order  in  silence ;  then  turning  his  head 
around,  he  called  his  servant,  Hyppolyte,  who  was  standing  near  by. 
'Hyppolyte,'  he  said,  in  his  rapid  way,  'we  are  going  to  charge; 
stand  here  in  a  safe  place,  but  watch  that  flag,'  pointing  to  the  regi- 
mental colors.  '  I  shall  either  be  before  it  or  by  it.  If  I  fall,  search 
for  me,  and  take  me  to  the  rear  if  wounded ;  if  dead,  bury  me  decently ; 
and  now,  God  bless  you,  you  have  been  a  faithful  servant,'  wringing 
the  hand  of  his  now  weeping  slave.  Allen  led  his  regiment."  Twice 
he  charged  on  the  battery ;  his  men  were  fearfully  cut  up,  but  they 
heard  the  rallying  voice  of  their  beloved  colonel  clear  and  distinct 
through  the  noise  of  battle,  and  they  followed  him  through  the  storm 
of  shot  and  shell  unhesitatingly,  never  faltering  an  instant.  Allen's 
heart  bled  to  see  his  men  dropping  around  him — wounded,  dying. 
After  the  second  charge  he  sent  to  tell  General  Bragg  that  his  regi- 
ment was  suffering  fearfully,  and  to  ask  if  he  must  make  another 
charge  with  them.  "  Tell  Colonel  Allen  I  want  no  faltering  now," 
was  the  stern  reply.  Allen  was  startled  and  stung  at  the  unjust 
insinuation  of  lack  of  courage.  He  never  forgot  nor  forgave  it.  Rising 
in  his  stirrups,  without  a  word  of  reply,  he  waved  his  sword  to  his 
men  to  follow,  and  charged  the  guns  once  more.  The  men  rolled  from 
their  saddles  like  leaves  about  him.  This  last  charge  was  as  useless 
and  ineffectual  as  the  other  two.  The  enemy's  position  was  too 
strong.  A  minie  ball  struck  Allen  in  the  mouth,  as  he  cheered  his 
men  on  this  fruitless  ride  to  death — for  so  many  of  them.  The  ball 
passed  out  through  the  cheek.  Catching  up  a  handful  of  cotton  lint, 
Allen  stuck  it  in  the  wound — which,  though  painful,  was  not  serious — 
tied  his  handkerchief  around  his  jaws  with  sangfroid,  in  the  midst  of 
the  rain  of  bullets  and  shells.  His  clothes,  cloak,  and  cap  were  riddled 
with  shot-holes ;  but  he  remained  in  his  saddle  all  day,  never  quitting 
the  field,  but  doing  his  utmost  to  the  last  lingering  hours  of  daylight, 
before  he  sought  medical  relief  or  repose.  The  day  declined  on  a 
glorious  victory  for  the  Confederates.  Grant  was  cowering  near  the 
river  under  the  protection  of  his  gunboats,  when  Beauregard,  careful 
of  the  lives  of  his  men,  finding  them  much  wearied  and  exhausted 
from  the  day's  work  and  want  of  food,  discovering,  too,  that  there  was 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHILOH.  95 

some  difficulty  in  manoeuvring  with  his  raw,  undrilled  troops,  ordered 
the  pursuit  to  be  checked,  the  lines  re-formed,  and  the  attack  to  be 
continued  at  daybreak  on  the  following  day.  Grant  was  still  strong 
behind  his  batteries  along  the  river,  and  under  the  cover  of  his  gun- 
boats. It  is  questioned  whether  Beauregard  was  right  or  wrong  in 
checking  this  pursuit.  But  there  are  several  points  to  be  considered 
in  viewing  Beauregard's  conduct  at  Shiloh.  In  the  first  place,  his 
plans — owing  to  circumstances  that  he  could  not  control — were  only 
tardily  carried  into  effect. 

"  Kapidity  in  war  depends  as  much  on  the  experience  of  the  troops 
as  on  the  energy  of  the  chief." 

Beauregard  was  always  careful  of  the  lives  of  his  soldiers.  Though 
an  engineer,  he  would  abandon  any,  the  most  cherished  fortifications, 
to  save  his  army.  And  also — 

"  It  is  too  common  with  soldiers,  first,  to  break  up  the  arrange- 
ments of  their  generals  by  want  of  discipline,  and  then  complain  of 
the  misery  those  arrangements  were  designed  to  obviate."  So  it 
proved  here. 

Our  undisciplined  forces  became  much  demoralized  by  the  sight  of 
the  rich  booty  they  found  spread  before  their  victorious  eyes,  in  the 
captured  tents  of  the  Federal  encampments.  The  costly  viands,  the 
splendid  accoutrements,  were  so  many  golden  apples  of  Atalanta,  to  our 
poor,  hungry,  thirsty,  weary  boys.  In  vain  the  commanders  stormed 
and  raged ;  the  gallant  army,  "  who  had  rushed,"  Beauregard  said, 
"  like  an  Alpine  avalanche "  on  the  enemy,  on  the  morning  of  that 
eventful  day,  at  nightfall  were  mostly  a  dissolved,  disorganized  rabble 
of  soldiers. 

The  7th  of  April  broke  upon  Grant,  reenforced  by  Buell.  The 
Confederates  had  been  gathered  in  some  order  by  their  indomitable 
leaders.  Grant  attacked  them,  now  strong  in  his  reinforcements. 
On  the  centre  and  right  he  was  steadily  repulsed — he  could  make  no 
impression  there.  The  left  he  attacked  obliquely,  pouring  line  after 
line  of  fresh,  vigorous  troops  on  it,  who  were  as  continually  repelled 
by  the  Confederate  phalanx.  But,  opposed  to  an  enemy  who  were 
constantly  reenforced,  the  Confederate  ranks  were  growing  thin.  A 
gentleman  on  Beauregard's  staff  narrated,  with  humor,  to  the  writer, 
how  he  came  unexpectedly  on  Colonel  Allen,  with  his  face  still  tied  up 
in  its  improvised  dressing  of  the  previous  day,  trying  to  rally  his  broken 
troops,  who  were  nearly  decimated  by  the  hard  fighting  he  had  led 
them  into.  He  said  :  "  There  was  Allen,  his  face  tied  up  in  a  bloody 
handkerchief,  with  a  bit  of  raw  cotton  sticking  on  his  cheek — which 
certainly  did  not  improve  his  beauty — one  minute  entreating,  praying, 
weeping,  tears  streaming,  as  he  implored  the  men  to  stand ;  the  next 


96  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

moment,  swearing,  raging  at  them,  abusing  them,  berating  them, 
giving  them  every  angry  epithet  he  could  think  of ;  then  addressing 
them  in  the  most  affectionate  words.  But  he  succeeded  in  gathering 
together  not  only  his  own  men,  but  a  number  of  stragglers  from  other 
regiments,  whom  he  coaxed  or  abused  back  into  the  ranks.  The  last 
I  saw  of  him,  he  was  off  with  them  like  a  whirlwind  into  the  thick  of 
the  battle.  It  made  me  both  laugh  and  cry  to  watch  him.  He  was  a 
regular  Murat ;  but  instead  of  the  '  white  plume]  it  was  the  white 
speck  of  cotton,  and  head  tied  up  in  the  white  handkerchief,  that  was 
always  in  the  van.'-  According  to  General  Beauregard,  the  number 
of  Confederate  troops  engaged  on  the  6th,  at  the  battle  of  Shiloh,  was 
about  33,000 — lost  one-third.  Grant  had  55,000.  On  the  7th,  the 
Confederate  force  did  not  exceed  17,000.  The  Federals  had :  Buell 
22,000,  Lewis  Wallace  8,000,  Grant  10,000  or  15,000,  making  nearly 
45,000  in  all.  The  battle-ground  extended  about  two  miles  and  a  half 
or  three  miles.  The  Federal  loss  in  the  two  days'  fights  was  nearly 
20,000,  killed,  wounded,  and  taken  prisoners.  On  the  first  day  of  the 
battle,  while  the  Confederates  were  pressing  Grant  down  on  his  gun- 
boats, the  firing  was  very  heavy  on  the  part  of  the  boats'  batteries,  in 
order  to  cover  Grant's  retreat.  The  great  conical  shells  were  rather 
alarming  to  our  verdant,  unused  troops.  They  would  strike  and  cut 
down  large  trees  with  a  neatness  and  despatch  that  startled  tyros  in  the 
art  of  war.  We  were  all  somewhat  timid,  at  that  time,  about  bombard- 
ments from  mortars  and  howitzers,  a  timidity  that  we  soon  got  rid  of 
as  the  war  progressed,  especially  all  of  us  living  on  the  water-courses, 
where  we  were  exposed  to  being  shelled  every  day — we  got  used  to  it. 
However,  these  marine  batteries  did  considerable  damage  to  our  troops 
at  Shiloh,  killing  and  wounding  the  men  frightfully,  until  they  got 
inside  the  range  of  the  boats'  guns.  Allen  was  leading  his  men  in  the 
fight  when  one  of  these  huge  messengers  of  death  demolished  a  tree 
in  front  of  him,  and  lodged  in  the  earth  at  his  horse's  feet.  Seeing 
the  extremity  of  danger  to  his  men,  Allen  spurred  his  horse,  leaped 
the  cavity  formed  by  the  unexploded  shell,  waving  his  sword  and 
calling  to  his  men  to  follow  him.  They  obeyed  instantaneously,  and 
were  all  safe  beyond  when  the  shell  exploded.  By  his  presence  of 
mind  and  coolness,  he  thus  preserved  his  men  and  his  own  life. 
******** 

After  eighteen  hours'  hard  fighting,  Beauregard  thought  it  best  to 
withdraw  his  wearied  troops  to  his  camp  at  Corinth.  General  Breck- 
inridge  covered  with  his  command  the  gradual  withdrawal  of  the 
Confederate  army.  This  retreat  is  regarded  as  a  remarkable  one.  It 
was  managed  so  quietly,  so  rapidly,  so  steadily,  so  skilfully,  the  enemy 
were  completely  deceived.  Breckinridge  presented  a  bold,  resolute 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHILOH.  97 

front  to  the  last  hour,  while  Beauregard  drew  back  his  lines  without 
confusion,  and  concentrated  them  again  at  Corinth.  Sydney  John- 
ston had  been  killed  :  the  news  of  his  death,  and  his  mode  of  meeting 
it,  sent  a  pang  of  regret  and  bitter  remorse  through  every  Southern 
heart.  AVe  recognized,  too  late,  the  great  spirit  of  the  man  we  had 
driven  to  reckless  desperation. 

Colonel  Allen  had  retired  at  last,  his  wound  growing  painful  from 
the  twenty-four  hours'  neglect  to  have  it  properly  dressed  by  a  surgeon. 
While  under  the  surgeon's  hands,  he  heard  the  cry  of  retreat  raised 
by  the  wagon-drivers.  Jumping  up,  he  rushed  among  them,  mounted 
on  his  horse,  and  aided  greatly  in  restoring  order  among  this  portion 
of  the  army.  Afterwards,  when  he  got  time,  the  dressing  of  the 
wound  was  completed.  His  careless  treatment  of  this  wound  in  the 
face,  which  he  regarded  so  slightly  at  this  time,  caused  him  much 
unnecessary  pain  from  it  ever  after. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  CHANCELLOKSVILLE. 

[From  A  Soldier's  Story  of  the  War.] 
BY    NAPIER    BAKTLETT. 

[NAPIER  BARTLETT  was  born  and  brought  \\p  in  Georgia.  He  changed  his  residence 
in  early  manhood  to  New  Orleans,  where  he  became  distinguished  as  a  journalist. 
During  the  Civil  War,  he  served  with  distinction  in  the  Confederate  Army.  After  the 
war,  he  was  at  different  times  editorially  associated  with  various  newspapers  of  his 
adopted  city.  He  was  the  author  of  Clarimonde,  a  novelette  ;  Stories  of  the  Crescent 
City  ;  and  A  Soldier's  Story  of  the  War.  He  died  in  1877,  in  the  forty-first  year  of 
his  age. 

THE  spring  of  '63  has  meanwhile  passed,  and  the  roads  have  com- 
menced to  harden.  The  men  absent  from  camp  have  grown  weary 
of  cities,  and  the  old  soldiers  about  winter  quarters  shout  lustily 
when  a  popular  general  passes  by — a  sure  sign  that  thev  have  regained 
their  old  combative  feeling,  and  a  sign,  too,  that  they  will  soon  be 
called  upon  to  make  use  of  it.  The  battery  forges  are  kept  constantly 
busy,  and  the  ringing  of  Callahan's  blacksmith's  hammer  in  his  labors 
for  the  benefit  of  the  battery  horses,  and  the  fl}Ting  sparks  which 
gayly  shoot  upward,  begin  to  intoxicate  the  blood  of  men. 

During  the  close  of  April,  the  rumbling  of  the  artillery  wheels 
and  the  weary  tramp  of  the  infantry  are  once  more  heard.  Hooker 
has  daringly  thrown  his  army  across  the  Rappahannock,  and  waded 
them  through  the  Rapidan,  a  deep  tributary,  and  has  made  a  move 
which  causes  Lee  rather  to  open  his  eyes.  However,  the  advantage 
lasts  but  a  moment.  The  Confederate  troops  are  promptly  gathered 
up,  and  boldly  moved  forward ;  Jackson  being  thrust  out  in  the  same 
way,  on  the  enemy's  flank,  as  the  one-armed  Captain  Cuttle  would  his 
hook — to  drag  the  enemy  in.  Hooker,  meanwhile,  has  occupied  the 
ground,  which,  if  he  only  knew  it,  and  would  hold  on  to  it,  would  gain 
him  the  battle ;  but  he  becomes  timid,  with  a  greatly  superior  force, 
as  Lee  becomes  daring,  and  meanwhile  his  army  is  like  one  of  those 
read  of  in  the  classic  page,  which  gets  bogged  up  in  a  swamp,  or 
trembling  prairie,  or  overwhelmed  by  the  Libyan  or  Arabian  sands ; 
or  as  in  the  Shipwreck,  where  the  whole  of  the  Duke's  Court  are 
wandering  about  on  an  unknown  land,  encountering  enemies,  and 
coming  across  friends,  in  all  manner  of  fantastic  ways.  At  one  end 
of  the  line — Hooker's  left,  which  faces  toward  Richmond — is  the  old 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CHANCELLORSVILLE.  99 

Chancellor  House.  It  will  soon  be  dripping  with  more  blood  than 
ever  was  put  in  a  sensational  tragedy  or  novel.  Against  one  of  its 
pillars  Hooker  is  leaning  in  the  battle,  when  stunned  by  the  concussion 
against  it  of  a  shell. 

On  Friday  morning  (May  1st)  the  opposing  columns  began  to 
jostle  each  other,  and  Hooker  now  can  emerge  from  the  tangled 
thicket  in  which  he  has  been  so  far  groping ;  but  it  is  his  last  chance. 
It  is  one  thing  to  mark  out  a  campaign  brilliantly,  and  another  to 
execute  it  unflinchingly,  with  new  difficulties  to  be  provided  for  on 
the  battle-field,  at  every  step.  As  the  Irish  duellist  explained  it,  to 
hit  the  stem  of  a  wine-glass  with  a  bullet  is  not  difficult — provided 
the  wine-glass  has  no  pistol. 

Hooker  once  had  emerged  from  his  dangerous  position,  where  his 
army  could  not  manoeuvre,  but  was  either  driven  back,  or  took  up 
from  choice,  according  to  Northern  accounts,  a  line  with  rising  ground 
in  front,  and  with  impenetrable  thickets  behind,  from  which  the  Con- 
federate attacks  could  readily  be  formed.  The  night  which  followed 
passed  silently  in  both  armies — silently,  so  far  as  the  guns  were  con- 
cerned ;  but  faint  noises  told  of  the  shovelling  up  of  rifle-pits ;  thou- 
sands of  midnight  woodcutters,  as  if  suddenly  possessed  with  a  super- 
stitious fancy  for  making  a  clearing,  were  causing  the  Wilderness, 
on  both  sides,  to  resound  with  their  blows,  or  bringing  to  the  ground 
some  of  the  huge  trunks,  with  a  noise  equal  to  cannon. 

The  falling  of  these  trees  meant,  for  Hooker,  that  he  would  await 
an  attack  ;  for  Lee,  that  he  knew  Hooker's  plan,  and  would  go  off  and 
make  an  attack  somewhere  else.  He  will  act  upon  Jackson's  last  and 
most  brilliant  idea,  and  send  the  latter  around  by  an  obscure  farm 
road  on  Hooker's  right,  between  him  and  his  river  communications. 
This  move  of  Jackson,  thought  to  be  a  retreat  to  Eichmond,  strikes 
the  Federal  right  at  five  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  May  2d,  and  by 
dark  it  has  put  a  whole  corps  to  utter  rout.  Jackson  has  got  on  the 
reverse  side  of  the  enemy,  to  within  half  a  mile  of  headquarters.  He 
is  now  about  to  deal  his  finishing  blow,  and  while  anxiously  seeking 
the  precise  situation  of  the  enemy,  gets  his  death-wound  in  the  dark, 
at  the  hands  of  some  of  his  own  pickets.  His  loss  left  the  battle 
incomplete,  in  spite  of  its  stunning  blow,  and  the  melancholy  news 
affected  the  Confederates  in  the  same  way  that  the  fulfilment  of  the 
various  omens  predicted  before  Troy  could  be  captured  affected  that 
city's  defenders.  On  the  other  hand,  if  Jackson  had  not  been 
wounded,  as  he  said  on  his  dying  bed,  "  the  enemy  would  have  been 
obliged  to  surrender  or  cut  his  way  out." 

On  the  next  day,  Stuart,  in  Jackson's  place,  bore  down  and  pressed 
back  the  Federal  right  wing,  while  Lee  on  the  opposite  side  ham- 


100  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

mered  away  at  Hooker's  centre  and  left,  forcing  back  two  corps ;  or, 
as  a  Northern  *  historian  expresses  it,  "  the  line  melted  away,  and  the 
front  appeared  to  pass  out."  Hancock,  who  alone  held  out,  began  to 
waver  at  ten  A.M.,  when  "  the  Confederates  sprang  forward  and  seized 
Chancellorsville." 

Fredericksburg  during  this  time  had  been  left  with  a  small  force 
of  five  brigades,  including  the  First  and  Second  Louisiana,  and  three 
companies  of  the  Washington  Artillery,  who  had  been  ordered  from 
Chesterfield  three  days  before  to  the  crest  of  Marye's  Hill — their 
old  battle-ground.  Barksdale  was  still  with  us.  The  latter,  Sunday 
morning,  in  view  of  a  movement  by  Sedgwick's  corps  on  this  part  of 
the  line,  were  reenforced  by  Hays's  brigade.  After  three  failures  in 
other  directions,  a  powerful  assaulting  column  was  formed  to  carry 
the  hill  by  storm,  which  feat  was  finally  achieved,  though  "  under  a 
very  severe  fire  that  cost  Sedgwick  a  thousand  men.  The  Confeder- 
ates made  a  savage  hand-to-hand  fight  on  the  crest,  and  over  the  eight 
guns."  As  there  was  only,  in  reality,  two  regiments  (less  than  two 
thousand  men)  assigned  to  the  support  of  our  artillery,  and  the  attack 
was  made  by  twenty-two  thousand  of  the  enemy  (according  to  Sedg- 
Avick's  report),  it  will  not  appear  surprising  that  the  works  were 
finally  captured.  The  guns  were  worked  desperately  to  the  last,  and 
were  faithfully  manned  by  their  cannoneers,  when  six  pieces  were 
surrounded,  and  the  guns  and  cannoneers  made  prisoners — most  of 
them  under  the  command  of  Captain  Squires  and  Lieutenant  E. 
Owen.  A  large  proportion  of  the  gallant  Eighteenth  and  a  part  of 
the  Twenty-first  Mississippi  were  taken  prisoners  at  the  same  time. 

Sedgwick  now  commenced  moving  on  the  slender  brigades  who 
had  been  retained  here  by  Lee  to  make  up  a  show  before  the  enemy 
and  retain  his  line  of  communications  with  Eichmond ;  Early  mean- 
while retreating  slowly  toward  Lee.  He  did  not  do  so  long.  Before 
the  day  was  over,  a  sufficient  force,  McLaw's  and  Anderson,  were 
promptly  sent  back  to  Early's  support.  The  shock  occurred  at  Salem 
Chapel,  and  all  that  need  be  said  about  it  was  that  Sedgwick  was 
checked  that  day,  "  with  a  total  loss  of  five  thousand  men."  f  Marye's 
Hill  was  reoccupied  the  next  day  without  any  difficulty  by  its  former 
possessors. 

On  Monday  night,  May  4th,  Sedgwick  being  surrounded  on  three 
sides,  and  hard  pressed  as  to  his  communications  with  the  river,  took 
advantage  of  the  darkness,  and  was  fortunate  enough  to  safely  with- 
draw his  troops. 

Lee  having  cleared,  as  it  were,  the  brushwood  from  his  path,  was 
now  (May  6th),  with  the  troops  Avhom  he  had  recalled,  prepared  to 
*  Swinton's  History  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  f  Swinton,  p.  299. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CHANCELLORSVILLE.          101 

attend  to  the  case  of  Hooker ;  but  that  general  was  found  to  have 
lost  all  stomach  for  a  fight,  and  had  put;  the  Jlappahannoqk,  between 
himself  and  the  enemy.  '.,.,•  !"•'  <  '•/  V"^" 

The  result  of  the  matter — and  this  ywas-  about,  >tke,  whole  result, 
except  that  new  material  for  powder 'hatr-tfr.be-'  ppd^deci^wks  that 
the  Union  loss  was  17,197,  and  the  Confederate  10,281.  All  of  the 
spoils,  in  the  way  of  artillery,  prisoners,  and  twenty  thousand  stand 
of  arms,  fell  to  the  Confederate  army.  The  victory,  in  short,  was  a 
glorious  one,  but  really  amounted  to  nothing,  as  Jackson  disappeared 
from  the  scene  at  the  moment  when  most  needed,  and  the  result  was 
incomplete. 


ISfiAKDMEOT   OF  THE  WASHINGTON 
ARTILLERY  IN  1865. 

[From  In  Camp  and  Battle  with  the  Washington  Artillery  (1885).] 
BY    WILLIAM   MILLER   OWEN. 

[WILLIAM  MILLER  OWEN  was  born  in  Cincinnati.  0.,  January  10,  1832.  At  the 
opening  of  the  Civil  War,  he  went  to  Virginia  with  the  Washington  Artillery  of  New 
Orleans,  serving  with  distinction  in  that  command  until  Lee's  surrender.  After  the  war. 
he  published  In  Camp  and  Battle  with  the  Washington  Artillery,  a  narrative  breathing 
the  spirit  of  the  bivouac,  the  march,  and  the  battle.  He  contributed  various  articles 
to  Scribner's  Magazine,  the  Century,  and  the  United  States  Service.  In  1890  he  assisted 
Mrs.  Jefferson  Davis  in  the  preparation  of  the  military  chapters  of  her  Memoir  of  her 
husband.  He  died  in  New  Orleans,  January  10,  1893.] 

ANOTHER  night  was  spent  sleeping  soundly  in  the  mud  and  rain, 
and  this  A.M.  (llth),  according  to  instructions,  I  had  my  teams  hitched 
up  and  moved  my  three  batteries  (twelve  guns)  to  the  main  road,  where 
I  turned  them  over  to  the  Federal  officer  detailed  to  receive  them. 
Returning  to  our  "  shelter  "  I  was  visited  by  General  John  G.  Hazard, 
Chief  of  Artillery  of  the  Second  Corps  U.  S.  A.,  and  his  Adjutant- 
General,  Captain  T.  Fred  Brown. 

We  couldn't  extend  to  the  General  much  polite  attention,  but  we 
did  the  best  we  could  under  existing  circumstances.  Officers  and  men 
of  the  Federal  army  mingled  freely  with  our  officers  and  men  around 
our  camp-fires,  and  not  a  harsh  word  was  spoken  on  either  side. 

In  fact,  the  conduct  of  the  victors  was  beyond  all  praise.  They  sent 
our  starving  men  provisions,  and  not  a  shout  of  exultation  nor  the 
music  of  a  band  was  heard  during  all  the  time  we  were  at  Appomattox. 
A  feeling  of  great  and  deep  sadness  filled  the  breasts  of  our  army,  and 
a  feeling  of  delicate  sympathy  pervaded  the  other.  Brave  men  who 
had  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  for  four  long  years  along  the  shining 
musket-barrel,  and  across  the  deadly,  blazing  trench,  understood  and 
respected  one  another. 

Something  was  said  about  our  joining  together  under  the  "old 
flag  "  and  marching  to  drive  Maximilian  out  of  Mexico,  and  I  believe 
we  would  have  gladly  gone,  but  nothing  came  of  it. 

On  the  morning  of  the  10th,  General  Meade  called  to  pay  his 
respects  to  General  Lee.  The  latter  reported  to  his  staff  after  the 
visit,  that  the  conversation  had  naturally  turned  upon  the  recent 


THE  DISBANDMENT  OF   THE   WASHINGTON  ARTILLERY.      103 

events,  and  that  General  Meade  had  asked  him  how  many  men  he  had 
at  Petersburg  at  the  time  of  General  Grant's  last  assault.  He  told  him 
in  reply  that,  by  the  last  returns,  he  had  thirty-five  thousand  muskets 
(35,000).  General  Meade  then  said,  "  You  mean  you  had  thirty-five 
thousand  men  on  the  lines  immediately  around  Petersburg  ? "  to  which 
General  Lee  replied,  "  No,  that  he  had  but  that  number  from  his  left 
on  the  Chickahominy  River  to  his  right  at  Dinwiddie  Court-House." 
At  this  General  Meade  expressed  great  surprise,  and  stated  that  he 
then  had  with  him,  in  one  wing  of  the  Federal  army  which  he  com- 
manded, over  fifty  thousand  men.  The  number  of  Confederates 
paroled  was  between  twenty-six  thousand  and  twenty-seven  thousand.* 

On  the  morning  of  April  12th,  our  battalion  and  the  remnants  of 
other  battalions  to  be  paroled  were  assembled  for  the  last  time  in  front 
of  our  camp-fire,  and  I  read  to  them  the  farewell  address  of  General 
Lee,  as  follows : 

HEADQUARTERS  ARMY  OF   NORTHERN  VIRGINIA, 

APPOMATTOX  COURT-HOUSE,  April  10,  1865. 
GENERAL  ORDERS  No.  9  : 

After  four  years  of  arduous  service,  marked  by  unsurpassed  courage  and  forti- 
tude, the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia  has  been  compelled  to  yield  to  overwhelming 
numbers  and  resources. 

I  need  not  tell  the  brave  survivors  of  so  many  hard-fought  battles,  who  have 
remained  steadfast  to  the  last,  that  I  have  consented  to  this  result  from  no  distrust 
of  them;  but  feeling  that  valor  and  devotion  could  accomplish  nothing  that  would 
compensate  for  the  loss  that  must  have  attended  a  continuance  of  the  conflict,  I 
determined  to  avoid  useless  sacrifice  of  those  whose  past  services  have  endeared 
them  to  their  countrymen.  By  the  terms  of  the  agreement,  officers  and  men  can 
go  to  their  homes  and  remain  until  exchanged. 

You  will  take  with  you  the  satisfaction  that  proceeds  from  the  consciousness 
of  duty  faithfully  performed,  and  I  earnestly  pray  that  a  merciful  God  will  extend 
to  you  his  blessing  and  protection. 

With  an  unceasing  admiration  of  your  constancy  and  devotion  to  your  country, 
and  a  grateful  remembrance  of  your  kind  and  grateful  consideration  for  myself,  I 
bid  you  an  affectionate  farewell. 

R.  E.  LEE. 

The  men  listened  with  marked  attention  and  with  moistened  eyes 
as  this  grand  farewell  from  our  old  chief  was  read,  and  then  receiving 
each  his  parole  they  every  one  shook  my  hand  warmly  and  bade  me 
good-by,  and  breaking  up  into  parties  of  three  and  four  turned  their 
faces  homeward — some  to  Richmond,  some  to  Lynchburg,  and  some 
to  far-off  ruined  Louisiana. 

I  watched  them  until  the  last  man  disappeared  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand  around  a  curve  of  the  road ;  then  mounting  our  horses  and  tak- 
ing a  sad  farewell  of  Generals  Lee,  Longstreet,  Gordon,  and  Latrobe, 

*  Four  Years  ivith  Lee.     TAYLOR. 


104  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

Taylor,  Cullen,  and  Barksdale,  we  rode  away  from  Appomattox.    And 
now — 

"Oh,  farewell! 

Farewell  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  fife, 
The  royal  banner;  and  all  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war ! 
And  oh,  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 
The  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamors  counterfeit, 
Farewell !  " 

We  rode  forty  miles  upon  our  return  journey,  and  bivouacked  in  a 
tobacco-barn  near  Cumberland  Court-House,  and  obtained  some  corn- 
bread  and  milk  from  a  kind-hearted  old  negro  woman.  Our  party 
consisted  of  Captain  E.  Owen,  Lieutenant-Colonel  J.  Floyd  King, 
Major  Thomas  Brander,  and  William  Fellowes. 

Bright  and  early  we  resumed  our  ride  until  we  crossed  the  James, 
and  halted  at  the  hospitable  home  of  Mr.  Logan,  in  Goochland, 
where  the  family  gave  us  a  hearty  welcome,  yet  withal  a  sad  one ; 
they  had  lost  all  hope  for  the  future.  We  rested  well — frequently 
falling  asleep  while  talking  with  our  hosts. 

The  night  before  our  lines  were  broken  at  Petersburg  the  boys  of 
the  section  of  the  First  Company  Washington  Artillery,  under  Lieu- 
tenant Battles,  placed  in  my  possession  for  safe-keeping  their  old 
battle-flag,  as  it  was  too  much  torn  and  riddled  by  bullets  to  be  any 
longer  used.  I  took  it  and  hung  it  up  in  my  quarters  at  Gregg 
House. 

Next  morning,  when  the  assaults  were  being  made  upon  the  Fort 
(Gregg),  and  the  bullets  were  flying  thick  and  fast,  I  remembered  the 
flag,  and,  riding  up  to  the  window  where  it  hung,  broke  in  the  sash 
with  my  sabre  and  secured  it.  I  carried  it  in  my  saddle-pocket  as 
far  as  Amelia  Court-House,  where  I  transferred  it  to  John  Logan, 
who  was  going  home,  with  instructions  to  give  it  to  his  sisters  for 
safe-keeping.  The  girls  concealed  it  in  a  sofa  cushion,  and  after  Lee's 
army  had  retreated,  Federal  cavalry  came  to  the  house,  and  officers 
slept  upon  the  sofa,  and  laid  their  heads  upon  this  piece  of  bunting. 
The  cushion  now  having  been  produced,  a  few  cuts  with  a  knife  re- 
vealed the  tattered  guidon.  While  it  is  very  wrong  to  "kiss  and 
tell,"  it  must  nevertheless  be  recorded  that  Captain  Owen  bestowed  a 
hearty  kiss  all  round. 

This  little  relic  now  occupies  an  honored  place  with  other  flags  in 
the  arsenal  of  the  Washington  Artillery,  in  New  Orleans. 

We  ended  our  journey,  and  rode  into  Richmond  on  the  18th  of 
April ;  and  as  we  passed  through  Main  Street  furtive  glances  were 


THE  DISBANDMENT  OF   THE    WASHINGTON  ARTILLERY.      105 

cast  and  little  white  handkerchiefs  were  waved  at  us  by  the  ladies  at 
the  windows  of  their  houses.  Main  Street  (the  business  part  of  it) 
was  in  ruins. 

Officers  in  blue  were  lounging  about  our  usual  haunts.  Soldiers  in 
blue  had  usurped  the  places  of  the  boys  in  gray. 

At  the  outpost,  when  w^e  entered  the  city,  we  were  kindly  received 
by  the  officer  in  charge,  and  were  informed  by  him  that  President 
Lincoln  had  been  assassinated.  We  told  him  that  we  sincerely  re- 
gretted that  it  was  so.  He  said,  "  Yes,  I  am  sorry  for  you  all ;  for  it 
will  go  hard  with  you  now,  and  the  whole  South." 

The  22d  of  April  found  us  still  in  Richmond.  We  are  not 
allowed  "  to  go  to  our  homes  unmolested,"  on  account  of  the  assas- 
sination. 

I  sold  my  horse  and  a  mule,  and  this  put  us  in  funds.  Fortunately 
some  kind  friends  had  saved  my  trunk  of  reserve  clothing,  but  I 
thought  it  prudent  to  purchase  a  suit  of  ready-made  garments  and  a 
round-top  hat. 

Some  rows  having  occurred  at  the  "  Spottswood  Hotel,"  between 
Confederate  and  German  Federal  officers,  wre  were  politely  requested 
to  leave ;  so  we  hired  apartments  on  Franklin  Street,  and  from  our 
windows  witnessed  the  army  of  General  Sherman  pass  through  en 
route  for  Washington.  We  finally  took  the  amnesty  oath  at  the 
State  House,  and  called  upon  General  Halleck  at  the  "  White  House," 
to  ask  permission  to  leave  the  city. 

When  I  crossed  the  threshold  of  that  house,  how  many  pleasant 
memories  it  brought  to  mind,  what  visions  and  plans  of  happiness 
that  were  never  to  be  realized ! 

How  my  heart  went  out  to  Mr.  Davis  and  his  family,  now  in  so 
much  trouble  and  distress ! 

We  laid  our  request  before  General  Halleck,  and  were  refused 
unceremoniously ;  but,  nevertheless,  the  next  morning  we  were, 
incognito,  on  board  the  steamboat  Georgiana,  bound  for  Fortress 
Monroe  and  Baltimore. 

We  took  leave  of  our  friends  in  Richmond  with  sincere  regret ;  all 
had  been  so  kind  to  us,  we  had  begun  to  consider  it  our  home.  While 
we  were  detained  in  Richmond,  awaiting  permission  to  depart,  a 
delegation  of  officers  called  upon  General  Lee  to  find  out  what  he 
would  say  in  regard  to  a  half-formed  resolution  we  had  made  to  go  to 
Brazil  and  enter  the  army. 

The  General  wras  indisposed,  but  General  Custis  Lee  told  us  that  it 
was  the  expressed  wish  of  his  father  that  everybody  should  "  go  home 
and  help  build  up  the  country."  The  Brazilian  army  obtained  no 
recruits. 


106  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

On  the  16th  of  May  we  arrived  at  Baltimore,  and  stopped  at 
"  Barnum's  Hotel,"  and  were  entertained  at  the  "  Maryland  Club." 

The  28th  of  May  found  us  snugly  located  at  the  "  New  York 
Hotel,"  in  New  York  City,  and  dropping  in  at  Brooks's,  we  arrayed 
ourselves  in  swell  garments,  and  felt  and  looked  like  gentlemen  of 
elegant  leisure  once  more. 

I  dined  with  Mr.  William  Travers,  and  hunted  up  my  old  friends, 
the  Gilmans,  all  of  whom  I  found,  to  my  unspeakable  regret,  mar- 
ried. They  had  a  hearty  welcome  for  me  and  called  me  their  "  rebel 
friend,"  and  insisted  upon  my  saying,  over  and  over  again,  "  I  am  so 
sorry ! " 

Latrobe  joined  us  here,  but  stayed  but  a  day.  Happening  to  see 
an  outrageous  caricature  of  Mr.  Davis  hanging  in  front  of  Barnum's 
Museum,  on  Broadway,  he  in  great  disgust  hurried  away  to  Boston, 
and  took  a  Cunarder  for  England. 

On  the  3d  of  June,  Captain  Hilary  Cenas,  C.  S.  Navy,  and  I,  took 
passage  on  board  the  steamship  Monterey,  bound  for  New  Orleans. 

On  the  third  day  out  we  learned,  through  the  purser,  that  a  num- 
ber of  "  Pelicans  "  were  passengers  in  the  steerage.  So  both  of  us, 
taking  a  bottle  of  champagne  under  each  arm,  climbed  down  the  com- 
panion-way into  the  dimly  lighted  'tween-decks,  and  introducing  our- 
selves to  our  compatriots  we  were  enthusiastically  received,  and 
popped  the  corks  and  had  a  jolly  time.* 

On  the  13th  of  June,  1865,  we  walked  into  the  "St.  Charles 
Hotel,"  in  New  Orleans,  where  Ave  found  officiating,  as  head' clerk, 
Andy  Blakely,  an  ex-member  of  the  Washington  Artillery,  who  took 
us  in  and  cared  for  us,  and  we  slept  once  more  under  a  Louisiana  sky, 
and  were  preyed  upon  and  bled  by  the  long  since  forgotten  Louisiana 
mosquito. 

In  the  morning,  my  last  piece  of  "  fractional  currency  "  (twenty- 
five  cents)  was  invested  in  a  Picayune  and  a  mild  refreshing  bev- 
erage, and  stepping  out  upon  the  broad  stone  balcony  of  the  hotel, 
into  the  warm,  delicious  June  sunshine,  I  took  up  again  the  broken 
thread  of  a  business  life  without  a  dollar  in  the  world,  emphatically 
and  completely  "  busted." 

*  The  names  of  those  returning  soldiers  were  as  follows:  John  A.  Lafaye,  Numa 
Landry,  Ernest  Landry,  Henry  Starr,  M.  O'Neil,  Honore  Flotte,  Alfred  Lamothe, 
Leon  Lamothe,  Octave  Legier. 


THE    CONFEDERATE    ADMINISTRATION    AND    ITS 
DOWNFALL. 

[From  The  Military  Operations  of  General  Beauregard.     Copyright,  1883,  by 
Harper  &  Brothers.] 

BY    ALFRED    ROMAN. 

IN  defending  the  territory,  population,  and  supply  resources  of 
the  Southern  States,  the  success  or  failure  of  the  Confederate  adminis- 
tration may  be  judged  by  a  brief  presentment  of  cardinal  points.  By 
the  devoted  courage  and  unsurpassed  endurance  of  our  volunteers, 
accepted  in  insufficient  numbers,  ill-fed,  ill-clothed,  and  ill-armed,  but 
led  by  officers  of  ability,  brilliant  victories  had  been  achieved  over  the 
invading  forces  of  the  North ;  and  drawn  battles,  hardly  less  distin- 
'guished,  had  been  fought  against  heavy  odds.  But,  although  the 
armies  of  the  United  States  had  received  terrible  repulses  on  various 
occasions,  they  certainly  made  considerable  progress  in  occupying 
important  portions  and  positions  of  the  Confederacy.  In  1861  were 
fought  the  battles  of  Bethel,  June  10th ;  Manassas,  July  21st ;  Ball's 
Bluff,  October  21st — in  Virginia ;  and  in  Missouri  the  battles  of  Spring- 
field, August  10th ;  Lexington,  September  21st ;  Belmont,  November 
7th.  In  1862  the  battle  of  Seven  Pines,  May  31st ;  Port  Republic, 
June  8th ;  the  seven  days'  battles  near  Richmond,  at  the  end  of  June ; 
Cedar  Run,  July  19th ;  second  Manassas,  July  29th,  30th,  31st — in  Vir- 
ginia ;  followed  by  Boonsboro'  and  Sharpsburg,  on  the  14th  and  17th 
of  September.  In  the  AVest  there  were  fought  the  battle  of  Elkhorn, 
in  Arkansas,  March  5th ;  Fort  Henry  and  Fort  Donelson,  Tenn.,  on 
the  5th  and  16th  of  February ;  and  Shiloh,  in  North  Mississippi,  on  the 
6th  and  7th  of  April.  The  Confederate  States  lost  the  harbor  of 
Port  Royal,  S.  C.,  November  7th,  1861 ;  Norfolk,  with  its  Navy 
Yard,  May,  1862;  and  also  Pensacola — these  constituting  the  finest 
ports  on  the  Southern  coast.  Of  the  cities,  St.  Louis  and  Louis- 
ville were  lost  in  1861 ;  Nashville,  in  February,  1862 ;  New  Orleans,  in 
April ;  Galveston,  in  May ;  Memphis,  in  June.  Besides  these,  the 
Mississippi  River  was  lost,  and  also  the  three  States  of  Missouri,  Ken- 
tucky, and  Tennessee,  whose  young  men,  generally,  were  with  the  Con- 
federacy in  feeling,  and,  if  they  had  had  encouragement  and  timely 
assistance,  would  have  recruited  the  Southern  armies  with  thousands  of 
brave  soldiers.  These  States  were  all  the  more  important  on  account 
of  their  large  production  of  grain  crops,  meat,  horses,  and  mules ;  and 
their  loss  was  a  series  of  severe  blows  to  the  Confederacy.  .  .  . 


108  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

It  is  notable  that  before  September,  1862,  public  opinion  concern- 
ing the  management  of  Confederate  affairs  had  undergone  a  decided 
change,  and  that  grave  doubts  respecting  the  competency  of  the 
Executive  to  guide  the  destinies  of  the  South  were  entertained  by 
many  who  had  the  opportunity  of  knowing  what  was  done  and  what 
was  omitted. 

Fearing  the  result  of  such  a  feeling,  Congress — which,  upon  the 
formation  of  the  government,  had  never  resorted  to  secret  sessions 
except  on  very  important  occasions — began  to  transact  no  small 
amount  of  its  business  with  closed  doors ;  and  secret  sessions,  hereto- 
fore the  exception,  now  became  almost  the  prevailing  rule.  There 
doubtless  were  circumstances  under  which  it  was  eminently  right  to 
keep  the  North  from  knowing  what  took  place  in  the  legislative  halls 
of  the  South.  In  war  secrecy  is  often  an  element  of  success.  But  on 
many  other  occasions,  and  when  there  was  no  necessity  to  conceal 
anything  from  our  enemies,  the  people  of  the  Confederate  States  were 
kept  in  ignorance  of  their  own  affairs,  and  of  the  views  and'  opinions 
of  their  representatives.  Thus  was  the  formation  of  public  opinion 
restricted,  if  not  altogether  obstructed,  and  criticism  on  the  conduct 
of  the  business  of  the  people,  in  a  degree,  suppressed ;  thus  was  the 
power  of  the  government  gradually  brought  into  the  hands  of  the 
President,  who  was  already  possessed  of  enormous  patronage,  not  to 
speak  of  the  veto  power.  The  people  were  cut  off  from  the  opportu- 
nity of  finding  a  remedy  for  errors,  no  matter  how  gross  and  vital 
they  might  be.  But  there  were  results  so  patent  that  they  could 
not  be  withheld  from  sight ;  and  in  some  of  these  the  public  could 
not  help  perceiving  a  mismanagement  which  could  only  lead  to 
disaster. 

In  the  war  of  1812  with  England,  and  in  the  Mexican  war  of  1846, 
the  general  government  called  upon  the  States  for  troops  needed 
in  addition  to  the  regular  army  ;  and  the  State  authorities  organized, 
officered,  and  sent  forth  their  respective  quotas.  During  the  late  war 
the  Federal  government  again  called  upon  the  governors  of  the 
States  for  the  soldiers  required,  and  received  them,  officered,  at  their 
hands.  But  the  President  of  the  Confederate  States,  after  declining 
to  accept  the  services  of  thousands  upon  thousands  of  volunteers  ten- 
dered, and  after  opposing  bills  offered  in  Congress  in  January,  1862, 
authorizing  him  to  call  for  troops  from  the  States  to  the  number  of 
fifty  thousand  and  upward,  as  late  as  March,  1862,  drove  Congress, 
on  the  plea  of  necessity,  to  pass  an  act  of  conscription,  which  set  aside 
the  authority  of  the  States,  and  gave  the  Executive  power  to  conscribe 
the  people  and  appoint  the  officers.  This  arbitrary  and  unwarranted 
step,  taken  Avithout  the  least  foresight  or  sagacity,  wholly  unneces- 


THE   CONFEDERATE  ADMINISTRATION  AND  ITS  DOWNFALL.    109 

sary  -and  unpopular,  did  not  strengthen  the  administration  or  the 
cause  with  the  people  of  the  South.  To  this  was  afterward  added 
unjust  impressments  of  private  property  for  the  use  of  the  Govern- 
ment, makeshifts  odious  to  a  free  people,  and  resorted  to,  in  a  great 
measure,  to  assist  the  notorious  incompetency  of  many  appointees  of 
the  administration — most  conspicuous  among  whom  was  the  well- 
known  and  proverbially  inefficient  Commissary-General  of  the  Con- 
federate States. 

As  events  rolled  on,  foreshadowing  the  inevitable  effects  of  per- 
sistently recurring  causes,  anxiety  and  distrust  of  the  Confederate 
government,  which  the  Executive  head  had  all  but  absorbed  and  jeal- 
ousy controlled,  pervaded  the  minds  of  all  intelligent  men  who  were 
informed  and  were  not  blinded  by  partiality  or  warped  by  personal 
interest.  And  the  dreaded  result  at  last  came.  The  weight  of  num- 
bers— though  not  that  weight  alone ;  the  prestige  of  reputed  consti- 
tuted Federal  authority  abroad — though  not  that  prestige  alone ;  but, 
concurring  with  these,  want  of  sagacity,  inefficiency,  improvidence, 
and  narrow-mindedness  on  the  part  of  the  administration;  egotism 
and  illiberality ;  culpable  loss  of  time  and  of  opportunity — these, 
altogether  and  combined,  brought  on  the  annihilation  of  the  hope  of 
Southern  independence. 

At  the  close  of  hostilities  between  the  two  contending  sections  the 
picture  was  a  dark  one.  Civil  strife,  whatever  be  its  cause,  whatever 
its  purpose,  carries  with  it  ruin,  and  is  followed  by  cruel  remem- 
brances. During  nearly  six  years  after  the  furling  of  the  Confederate 
battle-flag  there  was  added  to  the  mortification  of  defeat  for  the 
South  the  disheartening  reality  of  humiliation  and  distinctive  oppres- 
sion. Power  and  the  sense  of  victory  achieved  are  not  always  accom- 
panied by  conciliation,  justice,  and  generosity.  Yet  the  South  was 
earnest  in  laying  down  her  arms,  and  accepted  the  result  of  the  war 
with  a  brave  and  honest  spirit.  Time,  the  great  soother  of  all  human 
woes,  has  begun  and  is  advancing  with  its  work  of  pacification  and 
obliteration.  It  is  now  a  fact  that  the  Southern  States  are  as  faithful 
supporters  of  Federal  government  as  any  of  the  Northern  States  of 
the  Union. 

Notwithstanding  the  cloud  that  has  darkened  its  political  horizon, 
a  great  future  lies  before  the  whole  American  Kepublic.  Gradually 
emerging  from  her  ruin,  and  without  slavery,  the  South  possesses  her 
peculiar  agricultural  advantages,  and  is  becoming  both  maufacturing 
and  commercial  in  character.  In  the  days  of  renewed  prosperity  to 
come,  [let  Southerners  recall]  to  mind  and  to  honor  the  patriot  soldiers 
and  the  statesmen  who  made  every  sacrifice  in  what  they  conscien- 
tiously believed  to  be  the  defence  of  constitutional  liberty. 


ULYSSES   S.  GEANT  AND  KADICALISM. 

[From  Destruction  and  Reconstruction.     Copyright,  1879,  by  D.  Appleton  &  Company.] 
BY    RICHARD    TAYLOR. 

[RICHARD  TAYLOR,  only  son  of  General  Zachary  Taylor,  was  born  in  New  Orleans, 
January  27,  1826.  In  early  youth  he  studied  the  classics  in  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  and 
in  France.  On  his  return  to  the  United  States  he  entered  Yale  College,  from  which  he 
was,  in  due  time,  graduated.  During  the  Mexican  War,  he  served  in  the  Army  under 
his  illustrious  father.  In  1861  he  was  elected  to  the  Louisiana  Secession  Convention,  in 
which  he  distinguished  himself  as  a  debater.  During  the  strife  which  followed — whether 
as  Colonel  of  the  Ninth  Louisiana  Volunteers,  or  as  Brigadier-General,  or  as  Major- 
General,  or  yet  as  Lieutenant-General — he  reflected  honor  on  himself  and  the  cause  for 
which  he  fought.  After  the  war,  he  sought  recreation  in  Europe.  He  then  returned 
home,  and  played  no  small  part  in  the  politics  of  his  State.  In  his  Destruction  and 
Reconstruction  (1879)  he  records  his  reminiscences  of  Secession,  War,  and  Reconstruc- 
tion. His  literary  style  is  limpid,  vigorous,  and  entertaining.  He  was  one  of  the 
most,remarkable  conversationists  of  his  times.  He  died  in  New  York  City,  April  12, 
1879.] 

SINCE  the  spring  of  1873,  when  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  worst 
elements  of  his  party,  I  have  not  seen  President  Grant ;  but  his  career 
suggests  some  curious  reflections  to  one  who  has  known  him  for  thirty- 
odd  years.  What  the  waiting- woman  promised  in  jest,  Dame  Fortune 
has  seriously  bestowed  on  this  Malvolio,  and  his  political  cross-garter- 
ings  not  only  find  favor  with  the  Eadical  Olivia,  but  are  admired  by 
the  Sir  Tobys  of  the  European  world.  Indeed,  Fortune  has  conceits 
as  quaint  as  those  of  Haroun  al-Raschid.  The  beggar,  from  profound 
sleep,  awoke  in  the  Caliph's  bed.  Amazed  and  frightened  by  his 
surroundings,  he  slowly  gained  composure  as  courtier  after  courtier 
entered,  bowing  low,  to  proclaim  him  King  of  kings,  Light  of  the 
World,  Commander  of  the  Faithful ;  and  he  speedily  came  to  believe 
that  the  present  had  always  existed,  while  the  real  past  was  an  idle 
dream.  Of  a  nature  kindly  and  modest,  President  Grant  was  assured 
by  all  about  him  that  he  was  the  delight  of  the  Eadicals,  greatest 
captain  of  the  age,  and  savior  of  the  nation's  life.  It  was  inevitable 
that  he  should  begin  by  believing  some  of  this,  and  end  by  believing 
it  all.  Though  he  had  wasted  but  little  time  on  books  since  leaving 
West  Point,  where  in  his  day  the  curriculum  was  limited,  he  had  found 
out  to  the  last  shilling  the  various  sums  voted  by  Parliament  to  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  and  spoke  of  them  in  a  manner  indicating  his 
opinion  that  he  was  another  example  of  the  ingratitude  of  republics. 


ULYSSES  S.    GRANT  AND  RADICALISM.  Ill 

The  gentle  temper  and  sense  of  justice  of  Othello  resisted  the  insidious 
wiles  of  lago ;  but  ignorance  and  inexperience  yielded  in  the  end  to 
malignity  and  craft.  President  Grant  was  brought  not  only  to  smother 
the  Desdemona  of  his  early  preferences  and  intentions,  but  to  feel  no 
remorse  for  the  deed,  and  take  to  his  bosom  the  harridan  of  radicalism. 
As  Phalaris  did  those  of  Agrigentum  opposed  to  his  rule,  he  finished 
by  hating  Southerners  and  Democrats. 

During  the  struggle  for  the  Presidency  in  the  autumn  of  1876,  he 
permitted  a  member  of  his  Cabinet,  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  to 
become  the  manager  of  the  Eadicals  and  use  all  the  power,  of  his 
office,  established  for  the  public  service,  to  promote  the  success  of  his 
party's  candidate. 

Monsieur  Fourtou,  Minister  of  the  Interior,  removed  prefects  and 
mayors  to  strengthen  the  power  of  De  Broglie ;  whereupon  all  the 
newspapers  in  our  land  published  long  essays  to  show  and  lament  the 
ignorance  of  the  French  and  their  want  of  experience  in  republican 
methods.  One  might  suppose  these  articles  to  have  been  written  by 
the  "  seven  sleepers,"  so  forgetful  were  they  of  yesterday's  occurrences 
at  home ;  but  beams  near  at  hand  are  ever  blinked  in  our  search-  of 
distant  motes.  The  election  over,  but  the  result  in  dispute,  President 
Grant,  in  Philadelphia,  alarmed  thoughtful  people  by  declaring  that 
"no  man  could  take  the  great  office  of  President  upon  whose  title 
thereto  the  faintest  shadow  of  doubt  rested,"  and  then,  with  all  the 
power  of  the  Government,  successfully  led  the  search  for  this  non- 
existing  person.  To  insure  fairness  in  the  count,  so  that  none  could 
carp,  he  requested  eminent  statesmen  to  visit  South  Carolina,  Florida, 
and  Louisiana,  the  electoral  votes  of  which  were  claimed  by  both 
parties  ;  but  the  statesmen  were,  without  exception,  the  bitterest  and 
most  unscrupulous  partisans,  personally  interested  in  securing  victory 
for  their  candidate,  and  have  since  received  their  hire.  Soldiers  were 
quartered  in  the  capitals  of  the  three  States  to  aid  the  equitable  states- 
men in  reaching  a  correct  result  by  applying  the  bayonet  if  the  figures 
proved  refractory.  With  equity  and  force  at  work,  the  country  might 
confidently  expect  justice ;  and  justice  was  done — that  justice  ever 
accorded  by  unscrupulous  power  to  weakness. 

But  one  House  of  the  Congress  was  controlled  by  the  Democrats, 
and  these,  Herod-like,  were  seeking  to  slay  the  child,  the  Nation.  To 
guard  against  this,  President  Grant  ordered  other  troops  to  Washing- 
ton and  a  ship-of-war  to  be  anchored  in  the  Potomac,  and  the  child 
was  preserved.  Again,  the  4th  of  March,  appointed  by  law  for  the 
installation  of  Presidents,  fell  on  Sunday.  President  Grant  is  of 
Scotch  descent,  and  doubtless  learned  in  the  traditions  of  the  land  o' 
cakes.  The  example  of  Kirkpatrick  at  Dumfries  taught  him  that  it 


112  HISTORICAL  SKETCHES. 

was  wise  to  "  mak  sicker  "  ;  so  the  incoming  man  and  the  Chief  Justice 
were  smuggled  into  the  White  House  on  the  sabbath  day,  and  the  oath 
of  office  was  administered.  If  the  chair  of  George  Washington  was 
to  be  filched,  it  were  best  done  under  cover.  The  value  of  the  loot 
inspired  caution. 

In  Paris,  at  a  banquet,  Maitre  Gambetta  .  .  .  toasted  our 
ex-President  "  as  the  great  commander  who  had  sacredly  obeyed  and 
preserved  his  country's  laws."  Whether  this  was  said  in  irony  or 
ignorance,  had  General  Grant  taken  with  him  to  Paris  his  late  Secre- 
tary of  the  Interior,  the  accomplished  Z.  Chandler,  the  pair  might 
have  furnished  suggestions  to  Marshal  MacMahon  and  Fourtou  that 
would  have  changed  the  dulcet  strains  of  Maitre  Gambetta  into  dismal 
howls. 


PART    II. 
SPECIMENS   OF   ORATORY 


AGAINST  THE  ELIGIBILITY  OF  A  CITIZEN  BORN  OUT- 
SIDE OF  THE  UNITED  STATES,  TO  THE  GOVERN- 
ORSHIP OR  LIEUTENANT  -  GOVERNORSHIP  OF 
LOUISIANA.* 

BY    JOHN    K.    GRYMES. 

[JOHN  RANDOLPH  GRYMES,  born  in  Orange  County,  Va.,  in  1786  ;  died  in  New  Orleans, 
December  4,  1854.  Vide  p.  62.] 

CAN  any  one  in  this  Chamber  suppose  that  a  foreigner  can  rid 
himself  of  all  love  for  his  native  land  from  the  moment  he  comes 
among  us  \  For  myself,  I  am  free  to  say  that  I  do  not  believe  this ; 
and  I  venture  to  affirm  that  a  foreigner,  whose  heart  and  soul  can  so 
easily  expatriate  themselves,  would  prove  for  Louisiana  but  a  poor,  a 
very  poor  acquisition. 

An  American  may  acquire  either  German  or  French  naturalization 
if  his  interests  demand  it ;  but  if  that  American  should  renounce,  at  the 
same  time,  all  affection  for  this  happy  country  which  is  his  natural 
right,  I  would  prefer  that  he  should  continue  to  deny  his  mother  to 
the  end.  Nay,  the  foreigner  who  should  entertain  for  our  institutions 
merely  a  rational  attachment  would  be  a  hundred-fold,  a  thousand- 
fold preferable  to  such  a  man.  It  is  the  sheerest  folly  to  pretend  that 
the  voice  of  our  common  nature  can  be  so  easily  silenced.  That 
nature  reigns  in  us  all,  acts  by  us  all,  speaks  through  us  all,  in  spite  of 
ourselves ;  and  each  one  cherishes  in  his  heart,  so  long  as  it  beats 
within  his  breast,  those  feelings  of  family  and  native  land  which  God 
at  the  creation  so  wisely  implanted  there.  Fancy,  if  you  can,  what 
would  be  the  position  of  a  Governor  of  foreign  birth,  if  an  army 
formidable  in  numbers,  and  carrying  the  standard  of  the  land  in  which 
he  first  saw  the  light,  should  without  warning  profane  the  frontiers  of 
Louisiana.  We  are  told  that  our  eyes  shall  be  blasted  by  no  other 
wars.  This  is  an  error.  What  has  been  may — nay,  probably  will  be 
again.  And  in  such  a  case  who  can  fail  to  see  that  a  native  of  the 
invading  country,  placed  at  the  head  of  our  armies  of  defence,  must 
be  exposed  to  an  almost  irresistible  temptation  to  betray  the  cause  of 
wiiich  he  is  constituted  the  official  champion  ?  Never  will  that  man 

*  [From  remarks  delivered  in  the  Senate  of  Louisiana,  February  13,  1845,  during 
the  debate  on  Section  6,  as  submitted  in  the  Report  of  the  Legislative  Committee  on  the 
new  State  Constitution.] 


116  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

face  upon  the  field  of  battle  the  friends  of  his  boyhood  and  the  com- 
rades of  his  youth,  with  such  courage  and  steadfastness  as  a  soldier  of 
American  birth.  Even  those  highest  qualities  of  mind  and  heart,  with 
which  such  alien  leader  might  be  credited,  would  become  sinister. 
Within  him,  higher  than  honor  itself,  will  speak  the  voice  of  Nature ! 
He  will  hesitate  at  the  employment  of  any  aggressive  measure,  and 
that  hesitation  will  bring  disaster  in  its  train,  and  perhaps  the  ruin 
of  the  country.  Ah,  we  need  a  native  citizen  at  the  head  of  the 
phalanxes  of  the  State!  The  mere  sight  of  the  enemy  irritates 
and  influences  such  a  man.  He  advances  with  head  erect  and  heart 
palpitating.  For  him  there  is  no  middle  ground  between  victory  and 
death  ;  while  in  the  heart  of  the  naturalized  citizen  there  would  beat 
a  secret  scruple,  an  innate  feeling  of  repugnance,  which  would  paralyze 
at  once  his  energy  in  the  field  and  his  counsels  in  the  cabinet.  In 
spite  of  what  Mr.  Preston  may  affirm  to  the  contrary,  a  man's  oath  is 
not  so  strong  as  nature,  and  he  cannot  be  born  twice.  He  may  be 
baptized  an  American,  but  such  political  baptism  cannot  prevent  the 
heart's  voice  of  that  man  from  ever  inspiring  him  unto  tenderness, 
when  it  repeats  the  accents,  when  it  recalls  the  scenes,  when  it  mur- 
murs the  affections  of  his  first  country. 

But  suppose  we  forget  the  days  of  war,  ever  unhappy,  and  steady 
ourselves  upon  those  epochs,  more  or  less  flourishing,  with  which  our 
long  peace  has  blessed  us.  The  election  of  a  naturalized  citizen  to 
the  office  of  Governor  would  become  a  subject  of  perpetual  strife  in 
Louisiana,  that  rich  and  fertile  land  of  ours,  upon  which,  with  each  day, 
masses  of  immigrants  from  all  nations,  but  especially  from  France, 
Ireland,  and  Germany,  throw  themselves.  Beyond  doubt,  as  I  have 
already  indicated,  future  immigrants  to  our  State  will  harbor  those 
sentiments  which  lead  men  to  prefer  their  own  countrymen.  They 
will  naturally,  if  the  opportunity  were  accorded  them,  elevate  one  of 
their  own  countrymen  to  the  highest  office  of  this  Eepublic,  and — if 
they  should  succeed  in  their  lofty  purpose — it  is  clear  that  the  fortu- 
nate mortal  upon  whom  their  choice  may  fall  will  not  hesitate  to 
distribute  among  these  friends  and  compatriots  at  once  the  official 
loaves  and  fishes,  and  thus  quicken  into  acute  danger  the  rivalries  and 
murmurs  of  naturalized  citizens  from  other  nations  of  the  globe. 
"  Look  at  that  German,"  will  sneer  Irishmen  and  Frenchmen  who 
are  made  Americans  by  our  laws,  "  look  at  that  German !  Since 
he  has  become  Governor,  he  cares  only  for  his  own  people;  but 
patience,  our  turn  will  come."  Yes;  but,  in  the  meantime,  there 
must  arise  an  endless  coil  of  strife,  and,  worse  than  strife,  of  corrup- 
tion festering  upon  our  body-politic — and  this  is  precisely  what  we, 
standing  here,  are  commissioned  to  prevent. 


ELIGIBILITY  TO    THE   GOVERNORSHIP  OF  LOUISIANA.       117 

And  let  not  the  reverse  of  the  medal  be  turned  to  tell  me  that  a 
Governor  born  under  our  national  flag  will,  on  his  side,  display 
partiality  toward  his  own  fellow-countrymen.  Under  the  menace  of 
such  a  fear,  I  cannot  see  how  any  one  can  be  justified  in  complaining. 
All  things  being  equal,  our  native  citizens  are  invested  with  a  natural 
right  to  stand  in  the  foremost  rank,  and  to  be  the  recipients  of  the 
first  favors.  The  naturalized  citizen  might  be  accused  of  presumption 
even  to  wish  to  compete  with  them.  Who  can  deny  that  our  native 
citizens  show  themselves  far  more  generous  ?  They  permit  their  Gov- 
ernor to  protect  these  naturalized  citizens,  and  God  knows  if  experi- 
ence has  not  proved  that  our  people  have  long  been  accustomed  to 
see  our  foreign-born  citizens  occupying  most  of  the  profitable  offices 
of  our  city  and  State. 

Why,  then,  should  we  heed  that  fretful  voice  which  tells  us  that, 
after  we  have  opened  wide  the  majestic  portals  of  our  Commonwealth 
to  all  other  rights,  we  dare  to  draw  the  distinction  contemplated  in 
the  clause  in  question  ?  This  privilege  of  making  sure  that  a  foreigner 
shall  never  sit  in  the  highest  seat  of  our  State  is  the  sole  right  which 
belongs  to  him  whose  ancestors  founded  its  Government.  And  that 
man  must  be  either  very  malicious  or  steeped  in  ambition,  who  would 
attempt  to  dispute  with  him  this  little  point  of  greatness,  this  slight 
distinction  in  the  midst  of  the  debris  with  which,  for  long  years  to 
come,  we  will  be  encumbered. 


THE   SONS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND.* 

BY    SEARGENT    S.    PKENTISS. 

[SEARGENT  SMITH  PRENTISS  was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  September  30,  1808.  In 
1826  he  was  graduated  from  Bowdoin  College.  In  1827  he  removed  to  Mississippi,  and 
in  1829  was  admitted  to  the' bar  of  Natchez.  In  1835  he  was  sent  to  the  Legislature 
of  his  adopted  State.  In  1837,  when  elected  as  a  Whig  to  the  lower  house  of  Congress, 
he  challenged  unsuccessfully  the  seat  of  his  Democratic  competitor,  but  supported  his 
claim  in  a  speech  which  established  his  reputation  as  a  parliamentary  debater.  De- 
feated, he  returned  to  Mississippi.  After  a  series  of  speeches  in  his  district,  he  gained 
at  the  next  Congressional  election  a  large  majority.  From  1840  to  1844  he  canvassed 
the  State  in  opposition  to  the  repudiation  of  its  bonded  debt.  In  1845,  chagrined  at  the 
passage  of  that  measure,  he  removed  to  New  Orleans.  In  that  city  he  began  the  study 
of  Civil  Law,  in  the  practice  of  which  he  sustained  his  reputation  for  eloquence  and 
analytic  power.  He  died  at  Longwood,  near  Natchez,  Miss.,  July  1,  1850.  Vide 
p.  124.] 

IT  is  not  for  the  sons  of  New  England  to  search  for  the  faults  of 
their  ancestors.  "We  gaze  with  profound  veneration  upon  their  awful 
shades  ;  we  feel  a  grateful  pride  in  the  country  they  colonized — in  the 
institutions  they  founded — in  the  example  they  bequeathed.  We  exult 
in  our  birthplace  and  in  our  lineage. 

Who  would  not  rather  be  of  the  Pilgrim  stock  than  claim  descent 
from  the  proudest  Norman  that  ever  planted  his  robber  blood  in  the 
halls  of  the  Saxon,  or  the  noblest  paladin  that  quaffed  wine  at  the 
table  of  Charlemagne  ?  Well  may  we  be  proud  of  our  native  land, 
and  turn  with  fond  affection  to  its  rocky  shores.  The  spirit  of  the 
Pilgrims  still  pervades  it,  and  directs  its  fortunes.  Behold  the  thou- 
sand temples  of  the  Most  High,  that  nestle  in  its  happy  valleys  and 
crown  its  swelling  hills.  See  how  their  glittering  spires  pierce  the  blue 
sky,  and  seem  like  so  many  celestial  conductors,  ready  to  avert  the 
lightning  of  an  angry  Heaven.  The  piety, of  the  Pilgrim  patriarchs 
is  not  yet  extinct,  nor  have  the  sons  forgotten  the  God  of  their  fathers. 

[And]  the  spirit  of  the  Pilgrims  survives,  not  only  in  the  knowl- 
edge and  piety  of  their  sons,  but,  most  of  all,  in  their  indefatigable 
enterprise  and  indomitable  perseverance.  They  have  wrestled  with 
Nature  till  they  have  prevailed  against  her,  and  compelled  her 
reluctantly  to  reverse  her  own  laws.  The  sterile  soil  has  become  pro- 

*  [From  an  oration  delivered  December  22,  1845,  before  the  New  England  Society 
of  New  Orleans.] 


THE  SONS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND.  119 

ductive  under  their  sagacious  culture,  and  the  barren  rock,  astonished, 
finds  itself  covered  with  luxuriant  and  unaccustomed  verdure. 

Upon  the  banks  of  every  river  they  build  temples  to  industry,  and 
stop  the  squanderings  of  the  spendthrift  waters.  They  bind  the  naiades 
of  the  brawling  stream.  They  drive  the  dryades  from  their  accus- 
tomed haunts,  and  force  them  to  desert  each  favorite  grove ;  for  upon 
river,  creek,  and  bay,  they  are  busy  transforming  the  crude  forest  into 
stanch  and  gallant  vessels.  From  every  inlet  or  indenture  along  the 
rocky  shore  swim  forth  these  ocean  birds — born  in  the  wild  wood, 
fledged  upon  the  wave.  Behold  how  they  spread  their  white  pinions 
to  the  favoring  breeze,  and  wing  their  flight  to  every  quarter  of  the 
globe — the  carrier  pigeons  of  the  world !  It  is  upon  the  unstable 
element  the  sons  of  New  England  have  achieved  their  greatest  tri- 
umphs. Their  adventurous  prows  vex  the  waters  of  every  sea.  Bold 
and  restless  as  the  old  Northern  Yikings,  they  go  forth  to  seek  their 
fortunes  in  the  mighty  deep.  The  ocean  is  their  pasture,  and  over  its 
wide  prairies  they  follow  the  monstrous  herds  that  feed  upon  its  azure 
fields.  As  the  hunter  casts  his  lasso  upon  the  wild  horse,  so  they 
throw  their  lines  upon  the  tumbling  whale.  They  "  draw  out  Levia- 
than with  a  hook."  They  "  fill  his  skin  with  barbed  irons,"  and  in 
spite  of  his  terrible  strength  they  "  part  him  among  the  merchants." 
To  them  there  are  no  pillars  of  Hercules.  They  seek  with  avidity 
new  regions,  and  fear  not  to  be  "  the  first  that  ever  burst "  into 
unknown  seas.  Had  they  been  the  companions  of  Columbus,  the 
great  mariner  would  not  have  been  urged  to  return,  though  he  had 
sailed  westward  to  his  dying  day. 

Glorious  New  England!  thou  art  still  true  to  thy  ancient  fame 
and  worthy  of  thy  ancestral  honors.  We,  thy  children,  have  assem- 
bled in  this  far-distant  land  to  celebrate  thy  birthday.  A  thousand 
fond  associations  throng  upon  us,  roused  by  the  spirit  of  the  hour. 
On  thy  pleasant  valleys  rest,  like  sweet  dews  of  morning,  the  gentle 
recollections  of  our  early  life ;  around  thy  hills  and  mountains  cling, 
like  gathering  mists,  the  mighty  memories  of  the  Eevolution;  and 
far  away  in  the  horizon  of  thy  past  gleam,  like  thine  own  northern 
lights,  the  awful  virtues  of  our  Pilgrim  sires !  But  while  we  devote 
this  day  to  the  remembrance  of  our  native  land,  we  forget  not  that  in 
which  our  happy  lot  is  cast.  We  exult  in  the  reflection  that,  though 
we  count  by  thousands  the  miles  which  separate  us  from  our  birth- 
place, still  our  country  is  the  same.  We  are  no  exiles  meeting  upon 
the  banks  of  a  foreign  river,  to  swell  its  waters  with  our  homesick 
tears.  Here  floats  the  same  banner  which  rustled  above  our  boyish 
heads,  except  that  its  mighty  folds  are  wider  and  its  glittering  stars 
increased  in  number. 


120  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

The  sons  of  New  England  are  found  in  every  State  of  the  broad 
Republic.  In  the  East,  the  South,  and  the  unbounded  West,  their 
blood  mingles  freely  with  every  kindred  current.  We  have  but 
changed  our  chamber  in  the  paternal  mansion ;  in  all  its  rooms  we 
are  at  home,  and  all  who  inhabit  it  are  our  brothers.  To  us  the  Union 
has  but  one  domestic  hearth ;  its  household  gods  are  all  the  same. 
Upon  us,  then,  peculiarly  devolves  the  duty  of  feeding  the  fires  upon 
that  kindly  hearth ;  of  guarding  with  pious  care  those  sacred  house- 
hold gods. 

We  cannot  do  with  less  than  the  whole  Union ;  to  us  it  admits  of 
no  division.  In  the  veins  of  our  children  flows  Northern  and  South- 
ern blood ;  how  shall  it  be  separated  ?  Who  shall  put  asunder  the  best 
affections  of  the  heart,  the  noblest  instincts  of  our  nature  ?  We  love 
the  land  of  our  adoption ;  so  do  we  that  of  our  birth.  Let  us  ever  be 
true  to  both,  and  always  exert  ourselves  in  maintaining  the  unity  of 
our  country,  the  integrity  of  the  Republic. 


APPEAL  IN  BEHALF   OF  THE   FAMINE-STRICKEN" 
IKISH.* 

BY    8EARGBNT    S.    PRENTISS. 

IT  is  no  ordinary  cause  which  has  brought  together  this  vast  assem- 
blage on  the  present  occasion.  We  have  met  not  to  prepare  ourselves 
for  political  contests,  nor  to  celebrate  the  achievements  of  those  gallant 
men  who  have  planted  our  victorious  standards  in  the  heart  of  an 
enemy's  country.  We  have  assembled  not  to  respond  to  shouts  of 
triumph  from  the  West,  but  to  answer  the  cry  of  want  and  suffering 
which  comes  from  the  East.  The  Old  World  stretches  out  her  arms 
to  the  New.  The  starving  parent  supplicates  the  young  and  vigorous 
child  for  bread. 

There  lies  upon  the  other  side  of  the  wide  Atlantic  a  beautiful 
island,  famous  in  story  and  in  song.  Its  area  is  not  so  great  as  that  of 
the  State  of  Louisiana,  while  its  population  is  almost  half  that  of  the 
Union.  It  has  given  to  the  world  more  than  its  share  of  genius  and 
of  greatness.  It  has  been  prolific  in  statesmen,  warriors,  and  poets. 
Its  brave  and  generous  sons  have  fought  successfully  all  battles  but 
their  own.  In  wit  and  humor  it  has  no  equal ;  while  its  harp,  like  its 
history,  moves  to  tears  by  its  sweet  but  melancholy  pathos.  Into  this 
fair  region  God  has  seen  fit  to  send  the  most  terrible  of  all  those  fear- 
ful ministers  who  fulfil  his  inscrutable  decrees.  The  earth  has  failed 
to  give  her  increase ;  the  common  mother  has  forgotten  her  offspring, 
and  her  breast  no  longer  affords  them  their  accustomed  nourishment. 
Famine,  gaunt  and  ghastly  famine,  has  seized  a  nation  with  its  strang- 
ling grasp ;  and  unhappy  Ireland,  in  the  sad  woes  of  the  present, 
forgets  for  a  moment  the  gloomy  history  of  the  past.  We  have 
assembled  to  express  our  sincere  sympathy  for  the  sufferings  of  our 
brethren,  and  to  unite  in  efforts  for  their  alleviation.  This  is  one 
of  those  cases  in  which  we  may,  without  impiety,  assume,  as  it  were, 
the  function  of  Providence.  Who  knows  but  what  one  of  the  very 
objects  of  this  great  calamity  is  to  test  the  benevolence  and  worthi- 
ness of  us  upon  whom  unlimited  abundance  has  been  showered  ?  In 
the  name,  then,  of  common  humanity,  I  invoke  your  aid  in  behalf  of 
starving  Ireland. 

Oh,  it  is  terrible,  that  in  this  beautiful  world  which  the  good  God 
*  [Delivered  before  the  citizens  of  New  Orleans,  February  7,  1847.] 


122  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

has  given  us,  and  in  \vhich  there  is  plenty  for  us  all,  that  men  should 
die  of  starvation !  In  these  days,  when  improvement  in  agriculture 
and  the  mechanical  arts  have  quadrupled  the  productiveness  of  labor, 
when  it  is  manifest  that  the  earth  produces  every  year  more  than  suf- 
ficient to  clothe  and  feed  all  her  thronging  millions,  it  is  a  shame  and 
a  disgrace  that  the  word  starvation  has  not  long  since  become  obso- 
lete, or  only  retained  to  explain  the  dim  legends  of  a  barbarous  age. 
You  who  have  never  been  beyond  the  precincts  of  our  own  favored 
country ;  you,  more  especially,  who  have  always  lived  in  this  great 
valley  of  the  Mississippi — the  cornucopia  of  the  world — who  see  each 
day  poured  into  the  lap  of  your  city  food  sufficient  to  assuage  the 
hunger  of  a  nation,  can  form  but  an  imperfect  idea  of  the  horrors  of 
famine — of  the  terror  which  strikes  men's  souls  when  they  cry  in  vain 
for  bread. 

When  a  man  dies  of  disease,  he  alone  endures  the  pain.  Around 
his  pillow  are  gathered  sympathizing  friends,  who,  if  they  cannot 
keep  back  the  deadly  messenger,  cover  his  face  and  conceal  the  hor- 
rors of  his  visage  as  he  delivers  his  stern  mandate.  In  battle,  in  the 
fulness  of  his  pride  and  strength,  little  recks  the  soldier  whether  the 
hissing  bullet  sings  his  sudden  requiem,  or  the  cords  of  life  are 
severed  by  the  sharp  steel.  But  he  who  dies  of  hunger  wrestles 
alone,  day  after  day,  with  his  grim  and  unrelenting  enemy.  He  has 
no  friends  to  cheer  him  in  the  terrible  conflict ;  for  if  he  had  friends, 
how  could  he  die  of  hunger  ?  He  has  not  the  hot  blood  of  the  soldier 
to  maintain  him ;  for  his  foe,  vampire  like,  has  exhausted  his  veins. 
Famine  comes  not  up  like  a  brave  enemy,  storming,  by  a  sudden  onset, 
the  fortress  that  resists.  Famine  besieges.  He  draws  his  lines  around 
the  doomed  garrison ;  he  cuts  off  all  supplies ;  he  never  summons  to 
surrender,  for  he  gives  no  quarter.  Alas  for  poor  human  nature !  hoAV 
can  it  sustain  this  fearful  warfare  ?  Day  by  day  the  blood  recedes,  the 
flesh  deserts,  the  muscles  relax,  and  the  sinews  grow  powerless.  At 
last  the  mind,  which  at  first  had  bravely  nerved  itself  for  the  con- 
test, gives  way  under  the  mysterious  influences  which  govern  its 
union  with  the  body.  Then  he  begins  to  doubt  the  existence  of  an 
overruling  Providence  ;  he  hates  his  fellow-men,  and  glares  upon  them 
with  the  longings  of  a  cannibal,  and,  it  may  be,  dies  blaspheming! 

Who  will  hesitate  to  give  his  mite  to  avert  such  awful  results  ? 
Surely  not  the  citizens  of  New  Orleans,  ever  famed  for  deeds  of  benev- 
olence and  charity.  Freely  have  your  hearts  and  purses  opened 
heretofore  to  the  call  of  suffering  humanity.  ,  Nobly  did  you  respond 
to  oppressed  Greece  and  struggling  Poland.  Within  Erin's  borders 
is  an  enemy  more  cruel  than  the  Turk,  more  tyrannical  than  the 
Kussian.  Bread  is  the  only  weapon  that  can  conquer  him.  Let  us 


APPEAL   IN  BEHALF  OF  THE  FAMINE-STRICKEN  IRISH.      123 

then  load  ships  with  this  glorious  munition,  and  in  the  name  of  our 
common  humanity  wage  war  against  this  despot  Famine.  Let  us  in 
God's  name  "  cast  our  bread  upon  the  waters,"  and  if  we  are  selfish 
enough  to  desire  it  back  again  we  may  recollect  the  promise,  that  it 
shall  return  to  us  after  many  days. 

If  benevolence  be  not  a  sufficient  incentive  to  action,  we  should  be 
generous  from  common  decency  ;  for  out  of  this  famine  we  are  adding 
millions  to  our  fortunes.  Every  article  of  food,  of  which  we  have  a 
superabundance,  has  been  doubled  in  value  by  the  very  distress  we 
are  now  called  to  alleviate.  We  cannot  do  less,  in  common  honesty, 
than  to  divide  among  the  starving  poor  of  Ireland  a  portion  of  the 
gains  we  are  making  out  of  their  misfortunes.  Give,  then,  generously 
and  freely.  Eecollect  that  in  so  doing  you  are  exercising  one  of  the 
most  godlike  qualities  of  your  nature,  and  at  the  same  time  enjoying 
one  of  the  greatest  luxuries  of  life.  We  ought  to  thank  our  Maker 
that  he  has  permitted  us  to  exercise  equally  with  himself  that  noblest 
of  even  the  Divine  attributes,  benevolence.  Go  home  and  look  at 
your  family,  smiling  in  rosy  health,  and  then  think  of  the  pale,  fam- 
ine-pinched cheeks  of  the  poor  children  of  Ireland ;  and  I  know  you 
will  give,  according  to  your  store,  even  as  a  bountiful  Providence 
has  given  to  you — not  grudgingly,  but  with  an  open  hand ;  for  the 
quality  of  benevolence,  like  that  of  mercy, 

"  Is  not  strained. 

It  droppeth  like  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven, 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  It  is  twice  blessed, 
It  blesses  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes." 

It  is  now  midnight  in  Ireland.  In  a  wretched  hovel  a  miserable, 
half-starved  mother  presses  to  her  shrivelled  breast  a  sleeping  infant, 
whose  little  care-worn  face  shows  that  the  coward  Famine  spares  not 
age  or  sex.  But  lo !  as  the  mother  gazes  anxiously  upon  it  and  listens 
to  its  little  moaning,  the  baby  smiles  !  The  good  angel  is  whispering 
in  its  ear  that  at  this  very  moment,  far  across  the  wide  sea,  kind 
hearts  and  generous  hands  are  preparing  to  chase  away  haggard 
hunger  from  old  Ireland,  and  that  ships  are  already  speeding  rapidly 
to  her  shores,  laden  with  the  food  which  shall  restore  life  to  the 
parent  and  renew  the  exhausted  fountain  of  its  own  young  existence. 


SEARGENT   S.  PRENTISS.* 

BY    HENRY    A.    BULLARD. 

[HEXRY  ADAMS  BOLLARD  was  born  in  Groton,  Mass.,  September  9,  1788.  In  180T 
he  took  his  B.  A.  degree  at  Harvard.  He  began  the  practice  of  law  in  Natchitoches,  La. 
He  represented  Louisiana  in  Congress  in  1831-32,  and  then  was  appointed  District  Judge, 
lie  was  for  about  twelve  years  an  Associate  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Louisiana, 
and  served  a  few  months  as  Secretary  of  the  State.  In  1847  he  was  elected  Professor  of 
Civil  Law  in  the  Law  Department  of  the  University  of  Louisiana.  "  His  opinions  while 
on  the  bench,"  says  his  biographer,  "  are  models  of  judicial  rhetoric,  brief,  perspicuous, 
and  pointed.  He  wrote  without  effort,  yet  with  a  critical  accuracy  that  defied  correc- 
tion." He  died  in  New  Orleans,  April  17,  1851.] 

[OuR  departed  friend]  was  a  native  of  the  State  of  Maine — the  most 
northern  part  of  the  Union.  Eeasoning  a  priori,  one  would  naturally 
suppose  he  would  have  possessed  merely  an  understanding  and  judg- 
ment as  solid  and  compact  as  the  granite  of  her  hills,  and  a  tempera- 
ment as  cold  as  her  climate.  Who  would  have  expected  to  find  in  a 
child  of  Maine,  the  fiery,  inventive  genius  of  an  Arabian  poet  ? — an 
imagination  as  fertile  in  original  and  fantastical  creations,  as  the  author 
of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights  ?  Let  us  not  imagine  that  Nature  is 
so  partial  in  the  distribution  of  her  gifts.  The  flora  of  more  Southern 
climes  is  more  gorgeous  and  variegated,  but  occasionally  there  springs 
up  in  the  cold  North  a  flower  of  as  delicate  a  perfume  as  any  within 
the  tropics.  The  heavens  in  the  equatorial  regions  are  bright  with 
the  golden  radiance,  and  the  meteors  shoot  with  greater  effulgence 
through  the  air ;  but  over  the  snow-clad  hills  of  the  extreme  North 
flash  from  time  to  time  the  glories  of  the  aurora  lorealis.  Under 
the  line  are  found  more  numerous  volcanoes,  constantly  throwing  up 
their  ashes  and  their  flames,  but  none  of  them  excel  in  grandeur  the 
Northern  Hecla,  from  whose  deep  caverns  rolls  the  melted  lava  down 
its  ice-bound  sides. 

I  think  I  can  assert  with  confidence,  that  Prentiss  possessed  the 
most  brilliant  imagination  of  any  man  of  this  day.  He  had  more  of 
the  talent  of  the  Italian  improvisators  than  any  man  living,  or  who 
ever  lived  in  this  country.  It  is  a  great  error  to  suppose  that  he  was 
a  mere  declaimer.  On  the  contrary,  there  was  found  always  at  the 
bottom  a  solid  basis  of  deep  thought.  He  never  preached  without  a 
text.  Even  on  convivial  occasions,  when  he  gave  full  rein  to  his 
fancy,  his  oratory  consisted  of  something  more  than  merely  gorgeous, 
imagery,  sparkling  wit,  and  brilliant  periods.  He  sought  to  illus- 

*  [  Eulogy  delivered  at  a  meeting  of  the  New  Orleans  bar,  December  6,  1850.] 


SEARGENT  S.   PRENTISS.  125 

trate  some  great  truth.  He  was  not  satisfied  with  stringing  together 
a  few  smart  sentences  and  commonplace  remarks,  but  that  rich  pro- 
fusion of  brilliant  metaphors  Avhich  he  threw  out  on  such  occasions 
tended  to  illustrate  some  great,  important  principle.  Such  was  his 
remarkable  gift  of  throwing  an  attractive  beauty  over  every  subject 
upon  which  his  imagination  lighted,  that  under  his  hand  a  truism 
became  a  novelty. 

As  a  lawyer  I  can  testify  that  Prentiss  was  diligent — even  inde- 
fatigable in  his  researches.  His  arguments  were  always  solid  and 
thorough.  It  has,  indeed,  been  sometimes  objected  that  he  pressed 
his  arguments  beyond  conviction.  He  never  drove  a  nail  that  he  did 
not  clinch  it,  and  sometimes,  perhaps,  by  clinching  it  too  tight,  broke 
off  the  head.  For  it  is,  permit  me  to  say,  sometimes  the  fault  of 
lawyers,  of  great  intellectual  vigor  and  fertility  of  imagination,  that 
they  push  an  argument  so  far  as  to  produce  the  impression  that 
their  own  convictions  are  not  altogether  sincere  "and  satisfactory  to 
themselves.  But  Prentiss  possessed  the  peculiar  faculty  of  rendering 
every  subject  which  he  treated  attractive  and  interesting.  When  he 
attended  the  courts  in  the  country,  and  it  was  given  out  that  he  was 
to  speak,  it  was  sure  to  attract  a  large  audience  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men. I  remember  a  case  in  the  Supreme  Court  in  the  Western  Dis- 
trict in  which  he  was  engaged.  The  court-house  was  crowded,  and 
a  large  number  of  ladies  graced  the  room.  It  was  a  simple  case  of 
usury,  which"  most  of  us  would  have  argued  by  reference  to  a  few 
adjudicated  cases  and  upon  general  principles.  In  the  hands  of 
Prentiss  it  became  a  prolific  theme  for  the  richest  imagery  and  the 
most  striking  novel  illustrations.  Shy  lock  became  ten  times  more 
hideous  and  revolting  in  his  picture  of  the  modern  usurer,  while  at 
the  same  time  he  argued  the  legal  questions  involved  with  singular 
vigor  and  acuteness.  Indeed,  there  was  no  subject  so  dry,  no  chasm 
so  deep,  but  he  could  span  it  over  with  the  .rainbow  of  his  imagina- 
tion—a rainbow  in  which  the  most  varied  hues  were  beautifully  com- 
mingled in  one  gorgeous  arch  of  light. 

The  fame  of  such  a  man  could  not  be  narrowed  down  to  the  limits 
of  a  single  State,  or  section  of  our  country.  It  extended  over  the 
Union.  It  shone  with  splendor  in  the  halls  of  Congress,  in  other 
cities  and  States,  and  wherever  he  passed  he  was  called  on  to  address 
the  people  upon  the  great  topics  of  the  day.  I  have  been  assured, 
that  even  in  Faneuil  Hall,  whose  walls  reechoed  the  first  cry  of 
Liberty  and  Independence — where  the  greatest  orators  of  their  day 
thundered  forth  their  noblest  efforts — where  the  impassioned  elo- 
quence of  the  elder,  and  the  silvery  tones  of  the  younger  Otis  had  been 
uttered — where  the  Dexters,  the  Everetts,  and  Choate,  and  Webster, 


126  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

and  others,  had  maintained  their  ascendency  over  that  cool,  reflecting, 
and  intellectual  people — even  there,  when  Prentiss  appeared  and 
poured  forth  the  torrent  of  his  gorgeous  elocution,  his  auditors  sprang 
to  their  feet  under  the  influence  of  his  magic  power. 

I  have  heard  most  of  the  eminent  men  of  the  day,  and  can  freely 
say  that  I  have  never  heard  any  man  who  combined  in  so  eminent  a 
degree  the  reasoning  faculty  with  brilliancy  of  fancy,  felicity  of 
language,  and  copiousness  of  illustration.  There  are  undoubtedly 
more  learned  men,  more  perfect  scholars  and  rhetoricians — more 
skilled  in  polishing  a  sentence  and  taming  a  metaphor;  but  none 
from  whom  rolled  forth,  as  it  were  spontaneously,  such  brilliant 
thought  and  startling  and  novel  figures.  In  this  respect  his  speeches 
resembled  the  displays  of  the  skilful  pyrotechnist — his  metaphors 
thrown  up  like  rockets  in  the  evening  sky,  and  bursting  as  they  rose 
into  a  thousand  dazzling  points  of  every  imaginable  color. 

Poor  Prentiss !  what  can  I  say  of  the  noble  qualities  of  his  heart  ? 
"Who  can  describe  the  charms  of  his  conversation  in  moments  of 
relaxation  and  social  intercourse  ?  Old  as  I  am,  his  society  was  one 
of  my  greatest  pleasures.  I  became  a  boy  again.  His  conversation 
resembled  the  ever-varying  clouds  that  cluster  round  the  setting  sun 
of  a  summer  evening — their  edges  fringed  with  gold,  and  the  noiseless 
and  harmless  flashes  of  lightning  spreading,  from  time  to  time,  over 
their  dark  bosoms.  Who  would  have  thought  -that  I,  whose  career  is 
ended — that  I,  whose  sands  are  fast  dropping  away — that  I,  with  my 
age  and  physical  infirmities — I,  whose  children  no  longer  require  a 
father's  solicitude — should  have  survived  to  pay  this  feeble  tribute  to 
his  memory  ;  while  he,  the  young,  the  noble-hearted,  the  gifted,  in 
the  fulness  of  fame  and  usefulness,  sinks  into  an  early  grave,  and 
leaves  behind  him  a  youthful  and  pious  wife,  and  four  orphan  chil- 
dren, to  weep  for  his  loss.  How  inscrutable  are  the  wrays  of  Provi- 
dence ! 

It  is  the  fate  of  great  wn/promsatori,  that,  though  they  exercise  a 
powerful  influence  over  their  contemporaries,  and  their  fame  is  brilliant 
and  extended  in  their  day,  they  leave  behind  them  but  few  and  faint 
memorials  of  their  greatness  and  their  genius.  Such  is  eminently  the 
case  with  Patrick  Henry  and  Seargent  S.  Prentiss.  The  effect  of 
their  eloquence  lives  mainly  in  the  memory  of  those  who  enjoyed  the 
rare  happiness  of  hearing  them.  Very  little  remains  of  all  the  power- 
ful displays  of  Patrick  Henry,  except  the  meagre  sketch  of  a  speech  or 
two  preserved  by  his  biographer.  How  many  brilliant  effusions  we 
have  all  heard  from  Prentiss,  of  which  there  is  no  permanent  record, 
and  which  must  pass  away  with  the  memories  of  those  who  listened 
to  them !  Permit  me  to  allude  to  one  occasion,  which  many  of  you 


SEARGENT  8.   PRENTISS.  127 

may  remember,  and  which  illustrates  this  remark.  Some  years  ago  a 
public  meeting  was  called  at  Dr.  Clapp's  church,  with  a  view  to  raise 
a  subscription  to  procure  a  statue  of  Franklin,  to  be  executed  by  the 
great  American  artist,  Hiram  Powers.  The  occasion  called  forth  all 
the  eloquence  and  stores  of  erudition  of  Richard  Henry  Wilde,  then 
fresh  from  the  classic  scenes  of  Italian  art.  It  happened  that  Prentiss 
had  just  arrived  in  the  city,  without  any  knowledge  of  such  a  meeting. 
He  was  dragged  into  the  church  by  some  of  his  friends,  and,  to  avoid 
observation,  took  his  seat  in  a  side  aisle.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Wilde  had 
closed,  there  was  a  cry  for  Prentiss,  Prentiss!  He  came  forward, 
obviously  surprised  and  embarrassed ;  but,  warming  with  the  theme 
as  he  advanced,  proceeded  to  pour  forth  to  an  enchanted  audience  one 
of  the  most  brilliant  and  remarkable  bursts  of  eloquence,  which,  I 
venture  to  assert,  ever  fell  from  any  individual  so  suddenly  and  un- 
expectedly called  on.  A  stranger  would  have  supposed  that  he  had 
done  nothing  during  his  life  but  study  the  poets  and  the  fine  arts,  and 
was  familiar  with  the  best  models.  He  exhibited  on  that  occasion  an 
extraordinary  familiarity  with  the  poets  and  the  arts,  and  no  one 
would  have  supposed  he  had  ever  read  a  law  book  in  his  life.  And 
yet,  of  that  speech  there  remains  not  the  slightest  vestige.  It  could 
not,  indeed,  have  been  well  reported.  To  have  caught  up  its  brilliant 
scintillations  would  have  been  as  difficult  as  to  sketch  the  meteors  that 
shoot  through  the  sky.  Indeed,  I  may  say  that  if  all  the  great  and 
brilliant  thoughts  that  fell  from  Prentiss,  in  popular  and  deliberative 
assemblies,  in  courts  of  justice,  at  convivial  parties,  and  in  his  social 
intercourse,  could  have  been  faithfully  reported  by  a  stenographer,  it 
would  form  a  work  truly  Shakespearean.  There  would  be  found 
beautifully  blended  the  broad  humor  and  even  ribaldry  of  Falstaif,  the 
keen  wit  of  Mercutio,  the  subtlety  of  Hamlet,  and  the  overwhelming 
pathos  of  Lear. 

But,  alas!  the  wand  of  Prospero  is  broken.  We  shall  no  more 
hear  the  eloquent  tones  of  his  voice,  nor  admire  the  specious  miracles 
produced  by  the  inspiration,  of  his  genius ;  for  he  possessed  the  only 
inspiration  vouchsafed  to  man  in  these  latter  days.  We  shall  no  longer 
be  permitted  to  laugh  over  his  mirth-provoking  wit,  nor  be  melted  by 
his  touches  of  true  feeling,  nor  admire  those  rich  gems  which  he  threw 
out  with  such  profusion  from  the  exhaustless  stores  of  his  imagination. 
Such  is  the  destiny  of  earthly  things — 

"The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples — the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 
And,  like  this  unsubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind." 


VIKTUE   THE  CORNER-STONE   OF  REPUBLICAN 
GOVERNMENT.*  " 

BY    JUDAH    P.    BENJAMIN. 

[JuDAii  PHILIP  BENJAMIN  was  born  in  St.  Croix,  West  Indies,  August  11,  1811. 
In  youth,  he  studied  for  three  years  at  Yale  College.  Removing  to  New  Orleans  in 
1831,  he  was  in  due  course  admitted  to  the  Louisiana  bar.  In  1842  he  was  elected  to 
the  United  States  Senate,  and  in  1857  was  reflected  to  the  same  seat.  On  the  secession 
of  Louisiana  (February  4,  1861),  he  and  his  colleague,  John  Slidell,  withdrew  from  the 
Senate.  On  the  formation  of  the  Provisional  Government  of  the  Confederate  States, 
President  Jefferson  Davis  appointed  him  Attorney  General  ;  but  soon  after  he  resigned 
this  dignity  to  accept  that  of  Acting  Secretary  of  War.  Standing  high  in  the  confidence 
of  President  Davis,  he  was  later  appointed  Secretary  of  State.  On  the  downfall  of  the 
Confederacy,  he  took  refuge  in  flight  from  the  United  States  authorities  ;  and  in  Sep- 
tember, 1865,  he  landed  in  England.  Called  to  the  English  bar,  he  wrote  A  Treatise  on 
the  Law  of  Sale  of  Personal  Property  (1868),  which  is  at  present  the  English  authority 
on  this  subject.  In  1872  he  was  made  Queen's  Counsel.  On  the  30th  of  June,  1883, 
compelled  by  failing  health  to  retire  from  the  practice  of  his  profession,  the  English 
bench  and  bar  tendered  him  a  "  farewell  banquet "  at  Inner  Temple,  London.  On  this 
occasion  the  Lord  Chancellor  pronounced  him  "  one  of  the  men  who  in  our  own  time  has 
most  illuminated  and  adorned  the  profession  of  the  bar  of  England."  Benjamin  died  in 
Paris,  May  8,  1884.] 

ONE  of  the  most  eminent  philosophers  of  modern  times,  who  had 
made  the  science  of  government  his  peculiar  study,  after  investigating 
what  were  the  principles  essential  to  every  mode  of  government  known 
to  man,  had  announced  the  great  result,  that  virtue  was  the  very 
foundation,  the  corner-stone  of  republican  governments ;  that  by 
virtue  alone  could  republican  institutions  flourish  and  maintain  their 
strength  ;  that  in  its  absence  they  would  wither  and  perish.  There- 
fore it  was  that  the  enlightenment  of  the  people  by  an  extended  sys- 
tem of  moral  education,  their  instruction  in  all  those  great  elemental 
truths  which  elevate  the  mind  and  purify  the  heart  of  man,  which, 
in  a  word,  render  him  capable  of  self-government,  were  objects  of 
the  most  anxious  solicitude  of  our  ancestors ;  and  the  Father  of  his 
Country,  in  that  farewell  address  which  has  become  the  manual  of 
every  American  citizen,  when  bestowing  the  last  counsels  of  a  heart 
glowing  with  the  purest  and  most  fervent  love  of  country  that  ever 
warmed  a  patriot's  breast,  urged  upon  his  countrymen  the  vital  neces- 
sity of  providing  for  the  education  of  the  people,  in  language  which 
*  [Reprinted  from  The  New  Orleans  Boole,  1851.] 


VIRTUE  THE  CORNER-STONE  OF  REPUBLICAN  GOVERNMENT.  129 

cannot  be  too  often  repeated :  "  It  is  substantially  true  that  virtue 
or  morality  is  a  necessary  spring  of  popular  government.  The  rule, 
indeed,  extends  with  more  or  less  force  to  every  species  of  free  govern- 
ment. Who  that  is  a  sincere  friend  to  it  can  look  with  indifference 
upon  attempts  to  shake  the  foundation  of  the  fabric  ?  Promote,  then, 
as  an  object  of  primary  importance,  institutions  for  the  general  diffu- 
sion of  knowledge.  In  proportion  as  the  structure  of  a  government 
gives  force  to  public  opinion,  it  is  essential  that  public  opinion  should 
be  enlightened." 

Recreant  indeed  should  we  prove  to  the  duty  we  owe  to  our 
country ;  unworthy  indeed  should  we  be  of  the  glorious  heritage 
of  our  fathers,  if  the  counsels  of  Washington  fell  disregarded  on  our 
ears. 

But  if  that  great  man  had  so  decided  a  conviction  of  the  absolute 
necessity  of  diffusing  intelligence  amongst  the  people,  in  his  day,  how 
unspeakably  urgent  has  that  necessity  become  in  ours  !  In  the  first 
attempts  then  made  to  organize  our  institutions  on  republican  princi- 
ples, the  most  careful  and  guarded  measures  were  adopted,  in  order  to 
confine  the  powers  of  the  government  to  the  hands  of  those  whose 
virtue  and  intelligence  best  fitted  them  for  the  exercise  of  such 
exalted  duties.  The  population  of  the  country  was  sparse ;  the  men 
then  living  had  witnessed  the  Revolution  that  secured  our  indepen- 
dence; its  din  Avas  still  ringing  in  their  ears;  they  had  purchased 
liberty  with  blood,  and  dearly  did  they  cherish,  and  watchfully  did 
they  guard,  the  costly  treasure;  the  noblest  band  of  patriots  that 
ever  wielded  sword  or  pen  in  freedom's  holy  cause  were  still  amongst 
them,  shining  lights,  guiding  by  their  example,  and  instructing  by 
their  counsels,  to  which  eminent  public  services  gave  added  weight. 
Now,  alas !  the  latest  survivor  of  that  noble  band  has  passed  away ! 
Their  light  has  ceased  to  shine  on  our  path.  The  population  that  then 
scarce  reached  three  millions  now  numbers  twenty;  and  the  steady 
and  irresistible  march  of  public  opinion,  constantly  operating  in  the 
infusion  of  a  greater  and  still  greater  proportion  of  the  popular  ele- 
ment into  our  institutions,  has  at  length  reached  the  point  beyond 
which  it  can  no  farther  go ;  and  from  the  utmost  limits  of  the  frozen 
North  to  the  sunny  clime  of  Louisiana,  from  the  shores  washed  by 
the  stormy  Atlantic  to  the  extreme  verge  of  the  flowery  prairies  of 
the  Far  West,  there  scarce  breathes  an  American  citizen  who  is  not, 
in  the  fullest  and  broadest  acceptation  of  the  word,  one  of  the  rulers 
of  his  country.  Imagination  shrinks  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
mighty  power  for  weal  or  for  Avoe  possessed  by  these  vast  masses  of 
men.  If  swayed  by  impulse,  passion,  or  prejudice  to  do  wrong,  no 
mind  can  conceive,  no  pen  portray,  the  scenes  of  misery  and  desola- 
9 


130  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

tion  that  must  ensue.  But  if  elevated  and  purified  by  the  beneficent 
influence  of  your  free  public  education,  if  taught  from  infancy  the 
lessons  of  patriotism  and  devotion  to  their  country's  good,  if  so 
instructed  as  to  be  able  to  appreciate  and  to  spurn  the  counsels  of 
those  who  in  every  age  have  been  ready  to  flatter  man's  worst  pas- 
sions, and  to  pander  to  his  most  degraded  appetites,  for  purposes  of 
self-aggrandizement — if,  in  a  word,  trained  in  the  school  and  imbued 
with  the  principles  of  our  WASHINGTON,  the  most  extravagant  visions 
of  fancy  must  fall  short  of  picturing  tlie  vivid  colors  of  the  future  that 
is  open  before  us.  The  page  of  history  will  furnish  no  parallel  to  our 
grandeur ;  and  the  great  Republic  of  the  Western  World,  extending 
the  blessings  of  freedom  in  this  hemisphere,  and  acting  by  its  example 
in  the  other,  will  reach  the  proudest  pinnacle  of  power  and  of  greatness 
to  which  human  efforts  can  aspire.  And  for  the  attainment  of  this 
auspicious  result,  how  simple  yet  how  mighty  the  engine  which  alone 
is  required ! — a  universal  diffusion  of  intelligence  amongst  the  people 
by  a  bounteous  system  of  free  public  education. 

It  has  been  said  by  the  enemies  of  popular  government  that  its  very 
theory  is  false — that  it  proceeds  on  the  assumption  that  the  greater 
number  ought  to  govern :  and  the  records  of  history,  and  the  common 
experience  of  mankind,  are  appealed  to  in  support  of  the  fact  that  the 
intelligence  and  capacity  required  for  government  are  confined  to  a 
small  minority ;  that  only  a  fraction  of  this  minority  are  possessed  of 
leisure  or  inclination  for  the  study  and  reflection  which  are  indis- 
pensable for  the  mastery  of  the  important  questions  on  which  the 
prosperity  and  happiness  of  a  country  must  depend ;  and  that  these 
men  best  qualified  to  be  the  leaders  and  guides  of  their  countrymen 
in  the  administration  of  the  government  have  the  smallest  chances  of 
success  for  the  suffrages  of  the  people,  by  reason  of  the  secluded  habits 
engendered  by  application  to  the  very  studies  required  to  qualify  them 
for  the  proper  discharge  of  public  duties.  Those  who  are  attached  to 
free  institutions  can  furnish  but  one  reply  to  these  arguments :  the 
premises  on  which  they  rest  must  be  destroyed ;  the  foundation  of 
fact  must  be  swept  away ;  and  the  majority,  nay,  the  whole  mass  of 
the  people,  must  be  furnished  with  that  degree  of  instruction  which 
is  required  for  enabling  them  to  appreciate  the  advantages  which  flow 
from  a  judicious  selection  of  their  public  servants,  and  to  distinguish 
and  reward  that  true  merit  which  is  always  unobtrusive.  Nor  is  this 
an  Utopian  idea ;  if  not  easy  of  attainment,  the  object  is  at  least 
practicable  with  the  means  that  a  kind  Providence  has  supplied  for  us. 
The  most  sanguine  advocates  for  public  schools  cannot,  nor  do  they, 
pretend  that  each  scholar  is  to  become  a  politician  or  a  statesman,  any 
more  than  it  would  be  practicable  or  desirable  to  make  of  each  an 


VIRTUE  THE  CORNER-STONE  OF  REPUBLICAN  GOVERNMENT.  131 

astronomer  or  a  chemist.  But  in  the  same  manner  as  it  would  be  use- 
ful to  instruct  all  in  the  general  outlines  and  striking  facts  of  those 
sciences,  it  will  not  be  found  difficult  to  give  to  the  youth  of  America 
such  instructions  in  the  general  outlines  and  main  principles  of  our 
government  as  would  enable  them  to  discriminate  between  the  artful 
demagogue  or  the  shallow  pretender,  and  the  man  whose  true  merit 
should  inspire  their  confidence  and  respect.  This  alone  would  suffice 
for  all  purposes  connected  with  the  stability  and  prosperity  of  our 
country  and  its  institutions ;  for  not  even  the  stanchest  opponent  of 
free  government  pretends  that  the  mass  of  the  people  are  swayed  by 
improper  motives,  that  their  impulses  are  wrong,  but  only  that  their 
ignorance  exposes  them  to  be  misled  by  the  designing. 

The  same  eminent  philosopher  to  whom  I  have  already  alluded, 
Montesquieu,  after  establishing  the  principle  that  virtue  is  the  main- 
spring of  democracies,  alludes  to  this  very  subject  of  the  education  of 
the  people  in  free  governments,  and  remarks  that  it  is  especially  for 
the  preservation  of  such  governments  that  education  is  indispensable. 
He  defines  what  he  means  by  virtue  in  the  people,  and  declares  it  to 
be  the  love  of  our  country  and  its  laws ;  the  love  of  country  which 
requires  a  constant  preference  of  public  interest  to  that  of  the  indi- 
vidual, and  which,  to  use  his  own  language,  is  peculiarly  affected  to 
republics.  In  them,  says  he,  the  government  is  confided  to  all  the 
citizens.  Now,  government  is  like  all  other  earthly  things :  to  be  pre- 
served, it  must  be  cherished.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  king  that  did  not 
love  monarchy,  or  of  a  despot  who  detested  absolute  power?  Every- 
thing, then,  depends  on  establishing  this  love  of  country,  and  it  is  to 
this  end  that  education  in  republics  ought  specially  to  be  directed.  If 
this  distinguished  writer  be  correct  in  these  remarks — and  who  can 
gainsay  them  ? — how  boundless  the  field  for  instruction  and  meditation 
which  they  afford !  How  is  a  love  of  country,  that  love  of  country  on 
which  our  existence  as  a  nation  depends,  to  be  preserved,  cherished, 
and  made  within  us  a  living  principle,  guiding  and  directing  our 
actions  ?  Love  of  country  is  not  a  mere  brute  instinct,  binding  us  by 
a  blind  and  unreflecting  attachment  to  the  soil,  to  the  earth  and  rocks 
and  streams  that  surrounded  us  at  our  birth.  It  is  the  offspring  of  early 
associations,  springing  up  at  the  period  when  the  infant  perceptions 
are  first  awakened  by  the  Creator  to  the  beauteous  works  of  his  power 
which  surround  us,  sustained  and  cherished  by  the  memory  of  all  the 
warm  affections  that  glow  in  the  morning  of  life.  The  reminiscences 
of  our  childish  joys  and  cares,  of  the  ties  of  family  and  of  home,  all 
rush  back  on  the  mind  in  maturer  years  with  irresistible  force,  and 
cling  to  us  even  in  our  dying  hour.  England's  noble  bard  never 
clothed  a  more  beautiful  thought  in  more  poetic  language  than  when 


132  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

he  depicted  the  images  that  crowded  into  the  memory  of  the  Gladiator 
dying  in  the  Arena  of  Eome — 

"  He  recked  not  of  the  life  lie  lost,  nor  prize — 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay  ; 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother." 

But  although  these  feelings  are  natural  to  man  in  all  climes  and 
ages,  how  intensely  are  they  felt,  how  deeply  do  they  become  rooted  in 
the  hearts  of  those  who,  in  addition  to  the  early  associations  peculiar 
to  each,  are  knit  together  in  one  common  bond  of  brotherhood  by  the 
recollection  of  the  great  and  noble  deeds  of  those  who  have  lived 
before  them  in  the  land ;  who  can  point  to  records  of  historic  lore  and 
show  the  names  of  their  country  and  her  sons  inscribed  upon  the 
brightest  pages  in  the  annals  of  the  past !  What,  then,  are  the  means 
by  which  to  kindle  this  love  of  country  into  a  steady  and  enduring 
flame,  chaste,  pure,  and  unquenchable  as  that  which  vestals  for  their 
goddess  guarded  ? — your  Free  Public  Schools.  Let  the  young  girl  of 
America  be  instructed  in  the  history  of  her  country ;  let  her  be  taught 
the  story  of  the  wives  and  mothers  of  the  Revolution ;  of  their  devoted 
attachment  to  their  country  in  the  hour  of  its  darkest  peril ;  of  that 
proud  spirit  of  resistance  to  its  oppressors  which  no  persecution  could 
overcome ;  of  that  unfaltering  courage  which  lifted  them  high  above 
the  weakness  of  their  sex,  and  lent  them  strength  to  encourage  and  to 
cheer  the  fainting  spirits  of  those  Avho  were  doing  battle  in  its  cause  : 
and  when  that  girl  shall  become  a  matron,  that  love  of  country  will 
have  grown  with  her  growth  and  become  strengthened  in  her  heart, 
and  the  first  lessons  that  a  mother's  love  will  instill  into  the  breast  of 
the  infant  on  her  knee  will  be  devotion  to  that  country  of  which  her 
education  shall  have  taught  her  to  be  justly  proud.  Take  the  young 
boy  of  America  and  lead  his  mind  back  to  the  days  of  Washington. 
Teach  him  the  story  of  the  great  man's  life.  Follow  him  from  the 
moment  when  the  youthful  soldier  first  drew  his  sword  in  defence  of 
his  country,  and  depict  his  conduct  and  his  courage  on  the  dark  battle- 
field where  Braddock  fell.  Let  each  successive  scene  of  the  desperate 
Revolutionary  struggle  be  made  familiar  to  his  mind ;  let  him  trace 
the  wintry  march  by  the  blood-stained  path  of  a  barefooted  soldiery 
winding  their  painful  way  over  a  frozen  soil ;  teach  him  in  imagina- 
tion to  share  the  triumphs  of  Trenton,  of  Princeton,  and  of  Yorktown. 
Let  him  contemplate  the  Hero,  the  Patriot,  and  the  Sage,  when  the 
battle's  strife  was  over  and  the  victory  secured,  calmly  surrendering 
to  his  country's  rulers  the  rank  and  station  with  which  they  had 
invested  him,  withdrawing  to  the  retirement  of  the  home  that  he 


VIRTUE   THE  CORNER-STONE  OF  REPUBLICAN  GOVERNMENT.  133 

loved,  and  modestly  seeking  to  escape  the  honors  that  a  grateful 
people  were  to  bestow.  Teach  him  to  appreciate  the  less  brilliant  but 
more  useful  and  solid  triumphs  of  the  statesman ;  tell  him  how  at  the 
people's  call,  the  man  that  was  "  first  in  war,  first  in  peace,  and  first  in 
the  hearts  of  his  countrymen,"  abandoned  the  calm  seclusion  that  he 
cherished,  again,  at  an  advanced  age,  to  expose  himself  to  the  stormy 
ocean  of  public  life :  first,  to  give  aid  and  counsel  to  his  countrymen 
in  devising  a  frame  of  government  that  should  forever  secure  their 
liberties ;  and  then,  by  his  administration  of  that  government,  to  fur- 
nish a  model  and  guide  for  the  Chief  Magistrates  that  were  to  succeed 
him.  And  then  lead  him  at  length  to  the  last  sad  scene,  the  closing- 
hour  of  the  career  of  the  greatest  man  that  earth  has  ever  borne,  to 
the  death-bed  of  the  purest  patriot  that  ever  perilled  life  in  his  coun- 
try's cause ;  and  let  him  witness  a  mighty  people  bowed  down  with 
gorrow,  and  mourning  the  bereavement  of  their  friend,  their  father. 
And  as  the  story  shall  proceed,  that  boy's  cheek  shall  glow  and  his 
eye  shall  kindle  with  a  noble  enthusiasm,  his  heart  shall  beat  with 
quicker  pulse,  and  in  his  inmost  soul  shall  he  vow  undying  devotion 
to  that  country  which,  above  all  riches,  possesses  that  priceless  treas- 
ure, the  name,  the  fame,  and  the  memory  of  WASHINGTON. 

Nor  is  it  here  that  the  glorious  results  of  your  system  of  universal 
education  for  the  people  are  to  be  arrested.  The  same  wise  Provi- 
dence which  has  bestowed  on  the  inhabitant  of  the  New  World  that 
restless  activity  and  enterprise  which  so  peculiarly  adapt  him  for 
extending  man's  physical  domain  over  the  boundless  forests,  that  still 
invite  the  axe  of  the  pioneer,  has  also  implanted  in  his  breast  a  mind, 
searching,  inquisitive,  and  acute ;  a  mind  that  is  yet  destined  to 
invade  the  domain  of  science,  and  to  take  possession  of  her  proudest 
citadels.  Hitherto,  the  absence  of  some  basis  of  primary  instruction 
has  caused  that  mind,  in  a  great  degree,  to  run  riot,  for  want  of 
proper  direction  to  its  energies ;  but  its  very  excesses  serve  but  to 
prove  its  native  strength,  as  a  noxious  vegetation  proves,  by  the  rank- 
ness  of  its  growth,  the  fertility  of  the  soil  when  yet  unsubdued  by 
man.  Let  this  basis  be  supplied,  and  instead  of  indulging  in  visionary 
schemes,  or  submitting  to  the  influence  of  the  wildest  fanaticism ; 
instead  of  becoming  the  votary  of  a  Mormon  or  a  Miller,  the  freeman 
of  America  will  seek  other  and  nobler  themes  for  the  exercise  of  his 
intellect ;  other  and  purer  fountains  will  furnish  the  living  waters  at 
which  to  slake  his  thirst  for  knowledge.  The  boundless  field  of  the 
arts  and  sciences  will  be  opened  to  his  view.  Emulation  will  lend 
strength  and  energy  to  each  rival  in  the  race  for  fame.  Then  shall 
we  have  achieved  the  peaceful  conquest  of  our  second,  our  moral  inde- 
pendence. Then  shall  we  cease  morally  as  well  as  physically  to  be 


134  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

the  tributaries  of  the  Old  World.  Then,  in  painting,  other  Wests  and 
other  A  listens  will  arise ;  then  sculpture  will  boast  of  other  Green- 
oughs  and  Powers  ;  then  the  name  of  Bowditch  will  not  stand  alone 
amongst  the  votaries  of  that  science  which  has  her  home  in  the 
heavens ;  then  other  philosophers  will  take  their  place  by  the  side  of 
Franklin,  and  other  divines  will  emulate  the  fame  and  follow  in  the 
footsteps  of  Channing. 


THE  COUKT   A  TEMPLE   OF  JUSTICE.* 

BY    RAXDELI,    HUNT. 

[RANDELL  HUNT,  a  native  of  South  Carolina,  removed  as  a  young  man  to  New 
Orleans,  where,  in  due  time,  he  played  an  important  part  as  lawyer  and  orator.  He  was 
an  ardent  Whig  until  the  collapse  of  that  party;  and  when  the  Civil  War  broke  out  he 
took  an  open  stand  in  defence  of  the  threatened  Union.  When  Louisiana  was  to  decide 
for  herself,  he  was  foremost  among  those  who  opposed  the  expediency  of  the  Secession 
movement.  In  1866  he  was  chosen  United  States  Senator  ;  but  the  seat  was  refused 
him  on  his  arrival  at  Washington.  In  1847-88  he  was  professor  of  Commercial  Law, 
Constitutional  Law,  and  the  Law  of  Evidence,  in  the  University  of  Louisiana  (Tulane 
•University).  In  1867-84  he  was,  at  the  same  time,  President  of  the  institution.  He  died 
March  22,  1892,  in  the  eighty-fifth  year  of  his  age.] 

EDUCATED  under  the  wise  and  liberal  institutions  of  a  Eepublic  of 
laws,  I  look  upon  the  place  in  which  I  stand  as  a  Temple  of  Justice — 
not  as  a  theatre  for  a  vain  display  of  powers  of  disputation  in  personal 
rivalry.  I  regard  this  Court  not  as  a  weak  assembly  of  individuals 
who  can  be  easily  operated  upon  and  misled  by  the  dictatorial  spirit 
and  arrogant  airs  of  certain  orators,  who,  forgetting  that  they  are 
mere  advocates,  foolishly  imagine  themselves  to  be,  and  would  make 
others  believe  them  to  be,  the  true  and  only  oracles. of  the  law;  but 
as  an  august  tribunal,  composed  of  men  of  good  sense,  firmness,  integ- 
rity, and  learning ;  who,  uninfluenced  by  any  passion  or  prejudice, 
examine  the  questions  properly  submitted  to  them  in  a  calm  and 
patient  spirit  of  investigation,  and,  after  a  full  and  impartial  consider- 
ation, decide  upon  them,  agreeably  to  the  principles  of  law  and  justice. 

True  liberty  is  a  practical  and  substantial  blessing.  Its  existence 
and  its  enjoyment  depend  upon  principles  which  are  equally  important 
and  should  be  equally  dear  to  every  man.  These  principles  are  founded 
in  the  laws,  and  are  recognized,  protected,  and  enforced  under  every 
social  condition  and  civilized  form  of  government.  They  are  the  safe- 
guards and  guarantees  of  the  most  invaluable  personal  rights,  of 
personal  security,  personal  liberty,  and  the  right  of  private  property. 
In  the  case  now  about  to  be  submitted,  the  last  only  of  these  rights 
is  assailed.  But  this  does  not  diminish  the  magnitude  or  interest  of 
the  cause  itself ;  for  it  would  be  vain  to  speak  of  any  other  right,  if 
it  be  once  authoritatively  proclaimed  that  the  acquisitions  of  labor 
shall  no  longer  stimulate,  cheer,  comfort,  and  enrich  industry,  but  shall 
*  [Reprinted  from  The  New  Orleans  Book  (1851).] 


136  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

be  the  prize,  or  rather  the  prey,  of  unprincipled,  reckless,  and  rapacious 
power.  Such  a  proclamation  would  be  a  declaration  of  war  against 
humanity  and  civilization — against  those  principles  which  the  very 
savages  hold  sacred,  as  essential  to  the  peace,  safety,  and  harmony  of 
society,  and  even  to  the  support  of  individual  existence. 

The  secure  enjoyment  of  property,  under  the  supremacy  of  the 
laws,  while  it  incites  to  industry  and  promotes  enterprise  in  all  the 
departments  of  labor,  maintains  and  strengthens  in  the  bosom  of 
the  citizen  a  sense  of  personal  independence  which  is  the  foundation  of 
human  happiness,  and  enables  him  at  once  to  discharge  his  obligations 
to  his  family,  and  to  the  community  of  which  he  is  a  member.  This 
truth  is  so  simple,  so  self-evident,  that  it  is  universally  acknowledged, 
and  even  forms  a  part  of  the  most  despotic  code.  Napoleon  himself, 
in  the  zenith  of  his  power  and  glory,  would  not  have  dared  to  have 
laid  violent  and  sacrilegious  hands  upon  the  property  of  the  humblest 
subject  of  the  empire.  And  what  is  the  spectacle  that  is  now  pre- 
sented ?  What  could  not  be  done  under  the  despotism  of  a  tyrant  is 
audaciously  attempted  in  this  country  of  republican  equality.  A  rich, 
unscrupulous,  and  greedy  corporation  has  insolently  appeared  before 
this  Court,  and  calls  upon  it  to  strip  private  individuals  of  their  hard- 
earned  property,  the  title  to  which  is  not  only  established  and  con- 
firmed by  every  principle  of  justice  and  by  the  special  provisions  of 
our  own  code,  but  by  the  uniform  opinion  and  practice  of  the  whole 
community,  and  the  solemn  decisions  of  our  highest  courts  under  the 
Spanish  laws. 

To  such  a  call  this  Court  will  not  fail  to  give  the  stern  rebuke  of 
insulted  justice.  The  jurisprudence  of  the  State,  so  long  settled,  will 
remain  under  your  action  as  fixed  and  stable  as  the  eternal  principles 
of  truth  and  equity  which  form  its  basis,  and  the  faith  of  the  Court, 
solemnly  pledged  in  its  judgments,  will  continue  to  be  the  surest 
guarantee  for  the  secure  enjoyment  of  property  purchased  upon  it. 
No  licentious  or  disorganizing  doctrine  will  be  suffered  to  disturb,  or 
in  any  manner  to  affect,  the  sacredness  of  a  just  title ;  and  the  poorest 
citizen,  while  he  betakes  himself  to  repose  under  his  humble  shed,  will 
reflect  with  pleasure  and  confidence  that  the  fruits  of  his  honest  labors, 
under  the  protection  of  the  laws  of  his  country,  are  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  most  unprincipled  rapacity,  though  backed  by  wealth  and  acting 
under  the  high-sounding  name  of  a  CORPORATION. 


AGAINST  THE  POLICY   OF  IMPASSIYENESS.* 

BY    PIERRE    SOULE. 

[PIERRE  SOULE  was  born  in  Castillon,  France,  September,  1802.  In  1825  he  was 
detected  in  a  plot  against  Louis  XVIII.  ;  but  being  subsequently  pardoned,  he  went  to 
Paris  where  he  studied  law.  While  a  writer  on  the  staff  of  Le  Nain  Jaune,  his  free 
expression  of  revolutionary  principles  offended  Charles  X.  Paris  was  no  place  for  the 
young  enthusiast,  and  in  1826  he  went  first  to  Hayti,  next  to  Baltimore,  finally  settling 
in  New  Orleans,  where,  after  being  admitted  to  the  bar,  he  soon  rose  to  distinction.  In 
1845  he  was  elected  to  the  State  Senate,  and  in  1847  Governor  Johnson  appointed  him 
United  States  Senator  to  fill  a  vacancy.  In  1849  he  was  elected  to  that  body  for  the  full 
term.  In  all  debates  on  national  questions,  he  was  a  pronounced  Southern  man,  and  a 
leader  of  that  wing  of  his  party.  In  1853  he  was  appointed  Minister  to  Spain — a  post 
which,  in  1855,  he  resigned  in  consequence  of  his  disappointment  at  the  non-action  of  his 
government  on  the  "•Ostend  Manifesto,"  which  he  had  helped  to  frame.  In  the  presi- 
dential campaigns  of  1856  and  1860,  he  supported  the  claims  of  S.  A.  Douglas.  Subse- 
quently, to  the  surprise  of  his  friends,  he  declared  himself  an  opponent  to  the  secession 
of  Louisiana.  After  the  war,  he  resumed  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  New  Orleans. 
In  1868,  with  broken  health,  he  finally  retired  to  private  life.  Soule's  fame  as  an  orator 
is  national.  His  addresses  before  the  people  were  models  of  majestic  and  impassioned 
eloquence.  He  died  in  New  Orleans,  March  26,  1870.] 

MR.  PRESIDENT  :  Let  us  not  be  lulled  into  slumber  by  the  idea  that 
we  are  too  distant  from  Europe  to  be  affected  by  her  political  convul- 
sions. Do  you  not  know  that  violence  and  oppression  are  contagious, 
and  that  their  triumph  in  any  point  of  time,  or  on  any  point  of  the 
globe,  reacts  on  the  moral  world  ?  Why,  moreover,  speak  of  isolation, 
when  you  can  ride  your  floating  palaces  from  continent  to  continent 
in  less  time  than  it  took  your  fathers,  fifty  years  ago,  to  travel  from 
Buffalo  to  New  York,  from  Boston  to  Philadelphia? — when  every 
wave  of  the  ocean  brings  you  swift  messengers,  blown  over  to  these 
western  shores  by  the  same  breeze  that  wafted  them  from  the  eastern 
hemisphere  ? — when,  low  as  it  beats,  you  can  hear  every  pulsation  of 
the  European  heart  beneath  the  iron  hands  that  strive  to  compress  and 
stifle  its  languid  and  agonizing  energies  ? 

But  it  is  insisted  that  an  expression  of  our  sympathies  is  more  a 
matter  of  sentiment  than  of  right  and  policy.  Sir,  I  pity  the  states- 
man who  does  not  know  that  public  sentiment,  which  sometimes  sup- 
plies and  sometimes  corrects  the  law,  is  always  its  strongest  support. 
And  I  believe  that  it  is  our  duty  to  keep  alive  by  good  offices  among  the 

*  [From  a  speech  delivered  in  the  Senate  Chamber  of  the  United  States,  March  12, 

1852.] 


138  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

nations  of  Europe  that  reverence  for  the  institutions  of  our  country, 
that  devout  faith  in  their  efficacy,  which  looks  to  their  promulgation 
throughout  the  world  as  to  the  great  millennium  which  is  to  close  long 
calendars  of  wrongs.  Let  their  flame  light  up  the  gloom  and  dispel 
the  darkness  that  now  envelop  the  peoples  of  monarchical  Europe. 
Humbled  though  these  peoples  be,  do  not  despise  them.  It  was  not 
their  choice,  but  treachery  that  made  them  slaves ;  and  if  you  should 
ask  why  is  it  that  they  seem  to  look  with  approving  smiles  and  con- 
tented hearts  to  the  hands  that  brandish  the  rod  over  them,  do  not 
forget  those  deluded  wretches,  condemned  to  be  devoured  by  beasts 
for  the  entertainment  of  the  Roman  Emperors,  who  could  not  be 
persuaded  that  Caesar  was  not  Eome,  and  who,  upon  entering  the 
Coliseum,  as  they  passed  his  seat,  would  bow  to  him  in  respectful 
submission,  and  exclaim :  "  Caesar,  morituri  te  salutant ! "  (Caesar, 
though  doomed  to  die  we  salute  thee !) 

I  heard,  the  other  day,  the  honorable  Senator  from  Tennessee,  in 
one  of  those  soul-stirring  feats  of  eloquence  so  peculiarly  his  own,  dis- 
claim that  there  be  anything  like  destiny  in  the  callings  of  a  nation. 
How  could  he  have  thus  overlooked  that  there  is  not  a  work  of  God's 
wisdom,  nor  a  striving  of  the  human  intellect,  that  bears  not  the 
indelible  seal  of  destiny  ?  Onward !  onward !  is  the  injunction  of 
God's  will,  as  much  as  Ahead !  ahead !  is  the  aspiration  of  every 
American  heart.  We  boast  exultingly  of  our  wisdom.  Do  we  mean 
to  hide  it  under  the  bushel,  from  fear  that  its  light  might  set  the 
world  in  flames  ?  As  well  might  Christianity  have  been  confined  to 
the  walls  of  a  church,  or  to  the  enclosures  of  a  cloister.  What  had  it 
effected  for  mankind,  what  had  it  effected  for  itself,  without  the  spirit 
that  promulgated  it  to  the  world  ?  Onward !  onward !  To  stand  still 
is  to  be  lifeless :  inertion  is  death.  Had  Mahomet  stood  still,  would 
he  and  the  mountain  have  got  together  ?  Had  the  colonies  failed  to 
assert  their  rights,  would  this  be  the  Government  it  is  ?  Had  Jeffer- 
son and  Polk  remained  impassive,  would  Louisiana  be  ours?  would 
Texas,  would  California,  sit  here  in  the  bright  garments  of  their 
sovereignty  ? 

You  commend  the  policy  of  the  fathers  of  the  Republic,  as  if  time, 
that  withers  the  strength  of  man,  did  not  "  throw  around  him  the 
ruins  of  his  proudest  monuments."  Have  I  not  shown  how  mutable 
it  had  been  ?  Let  us  not  calumniate  the  past  by  fastening  its  usurpa- 
tions upon  the  future.  I  revere  its  teachings,  but  cannot  submit  to 
make  them  the  measure  of  present  wisdom.  Speaking  of  the  sages 
whose  names  and  authority  have  so  often  been  invoked  in  this  debate, 
the  elder  Adams  attempts  to  exculpate  the  defects  of  their  views  and 
policy  by  this  remark :  "  The  present  actors  on  the  stage  have  been 


AGAINST  THE  POLICY  OF  IMPASSIVENESS.  139 

too  little  prepared  by  their  early  views,  and  too  much  occupied  with 
turbulent  scenes,  to  do  more  than  they  have  done."  And  with  what 
ardent  fervor  and  hope,  with  what  enthusiasm,  he  speaks  of  the  scenes 
which  display  themselves  to  his  view  in  the  future  of  his  country ! 
"  A  prospect  into  futurity  in  America  is  like  contemplating  the  heav- 
ens through  the  telescope  of  Herschel.  Objects  stupendous  in  their 
magnitude  and  motions  strike  us  from  all  quarters  and  fill  us  with 
amazement ! " 

My  reverence  for  opinions  consecrated  by  the  authority  of  the 
sages  who  preceded  us  will  not  induce  me  to  disintegrate  this  Kepub- 
lic,  and  shear  from  its  domain  Louisiana,  Texas,  Florida,  the  Califor- 
nias,  and  New  Mexico,  because,  forsooth,  Washington,  Adams,  and 
Hamilton  may  have  held  that  any  accession  of  new  territory  to  the 
area  embraced  by  the  old  States  was  unconstitutional.  I  could  not 
vote  in  favor  of  rechartering  a  national  bank,  because  this  institution 
had  the  assent  of  the  same  great  men.  Nor  could  I  shut  my  ears,  on 
their  account,  to  those  whisperings  of  the  future  that  betoken  the  rising 
of  new  generations  impatient  to  throw  themselves  on  our  lap. 

Sir,  public  opinion  scorns  the  presumptuous  thought  that  you  can 
restrain  this  growing  country  within  the  narrow  sphere  of  action  origi- 
nally assigned  to  its  nascent  energies,  and  keep  it  eternally  bound  up  in 
swaddles.  As  the  infant  grows,  it  requires  a  more  substantial  nour- 
ishment, a  more  active  exercise.  So  the  lusty  appetite  of  its  manhood 
would  ill  fare  with  what  might  satisfy  the  soberer  demands  of  its 
youth.  Do  not,  therefore,  attempt  to  stop  it  on  its  onward  career ; 
for  as  well  might  you  command  the  sun  not  to  break  through  the 
fleecy  clouds  that  herald  its  advent  in  the  horizon,  or  to  shroud  itself 
in  gloom  and  darkness  as  it  ascends  the  meridian. 


THE  HIGHWAY  OF  NATIONS.* 

BY    PIERRE    SOULE. 

ENGLAND  has,  from  time  out  of  mind,  attempted  to  arrogate  to 
herself  the  supremacy  of  the  ocean.  She  once  ruled  it  supreme.  But 
the  sceptre  has  fallen  from  her  hands,  and  the  tides  have  resumed 
their  courses.  And  now,  who  dares  to  claim  to  be  owner  of  the  sea  ? 
Who  presumes  to  have  exclusive  right  to  its  waves,  to  its  currents,  and 
to  its  storms  ? 

"  The  earth,"  says  the  Psalmist, "  was  given  to  the  children  of  men, 
but  the  sea  is  of  God  alone."  Now,  the  idea  of  ownership  implies 
that  of  exclusive  possession,  and,  of  consequence,  not  only  the  right  of 
using  the  thing  owned  at  will,  but  the  right  of  excluding  others  from 
possession,  and  ofttimes  the  necessity  of  so  excluding  them  in  order 
that  the  possessor  may  reap  all  the  advantages  his  property  can  yield. 
The  sea  has  no  characteristics  that  could  constitute  its  ownership  by 
any  man  or  nation.  Its  immensity,  its  fluidity,  must  forever  prevent 
its  being  subject  to  possession.  It  may  be  turned  to  profit,  it  is  true, 
by  each  and  by. all  of  the  human  species,  without  its  enjoyment  by 
some  impairing  or  diminishing  its  enjoyment  by  others.  Its  capacity 
is  incommensurable,  for  there  is  no  volume  that  can  exhaust  it.  Thou- 
sands of  fleets  may  be  sunk  in  it  to-day,  and  to-morrow  it  will  again 
engulf  millions  of  others,  without  ever  being  filled  or  notably  com- 
pressed. There  are  no  signs,  no  marks  through  which  to  attest  its 
occupancy.  Even  those  frightful,  though  majestic,  leviathans  that  now 
plough  it  over  in  all  directions,  do  not  leave  behind  them  any  trace  of 
their  passage,  since  the  rolling  waves  curl  back  as  they  move  on,  and 
waft  away  from  its  surface  the  last  vestiges  of  their  march. 

To  make  a  thing  yours  by  possession,  you  must  possess  in  continu- 
ity the  same  thing.  Identity  in  the  thing  owned  constitutes  one  of 
the  main  elements  of  possession.  A  field  or  a  forest  may  be  upturned, 
altered,  and  transformed ;  yet  it  will  be  the  same  field,  the  same  for- 
est. Not  so  with  the  ocean,  so  unceasingly  changing  in  its  form, 
place,  and  surface ;  now  sinking  its  upper  layers  in  the  utmost  recesses 
of  the  deep,  now  upheaving  others  from  her  lowest  bed  to  the  surface, 
as  if  to  spread  them  to  the  light  of  Heaven  in  glorious  exultancy.  Its 
inexhaustibility  renders  its  exclusive  enjoyment  not  only  useless,  but 
*  [From  a  speech  delivered  August  12, 1852,  in  the  Senate  Chamber  of  the  United  States.] 


THE  HIGHWAY  OF  NATIONS.  141 

impossible.  You  may  take  from  it  for  years  and  ages,  with  thousands 
and  millions  of  men  ;  you  may  seize  upon  its  pearls,  its  corals,  its  salts, 
and  its  fishes ;  yet  you  only  develop  its  powers  of  production  and  mul- 
tiply the  yieldings  of  the  mine  from  which  you  draw.  By  the  decrees 
of  God,  the  ocean  is  of  all  men.  Nations  may  undertake  to  explain 
and  interpret  those  decrees ;  they  cannot  abrogate  them. 

Yet,  sir,  nations  have  claimed  ownership  over  it,  or  such  a  suprem- 
acy as  seemed  to  constitute  it  in  a  sort  of  monarchy.  They  would 
have  other  nations  call  them  the  queens  of  the  sea.  Yes  ;  they  claim 
to  appropriate  it  to  themselves  and  to  subject  it  to  their  exclusive 
dominion.  The  discovery  of  America,  and  the  vast  development  of 
commerce  and  navigation  incident  thereto,  gave  zest  to  and  became  a 
powerful  stimulus  for  such  assumptions. 

Thus,  Venice  arrogated  to  herself  the  Adriatic ;  Genoa,  the  Ligu- 
rian  Sea ;  the  Portuguese  and  the  Spanish,  the  sea  of  the  two  Indies ; 
and  in  the  eighteenth  century,  England  claimed  to  be  the  mistress  and 
sovereign  of  all  the  seas  in  communication  with  those  surrounding  her 
coast,  which,  of  course,  was  no  less  than  to  claim  sovereignty  over  all 
the  seas  in  the  world,  as  they  all  communicate  with  each  other.  But 
these  arrogant  assumptions  on  the  part  of  powerful  states  never  were 
assented  to  by  those  whom  they  excluded  from  the  common  domain. 
The  history  of  England  furnishes  us  with  a  striking  example  of  her 
own  susceptibility,  whenever  such  claims  were  set  up  against  her.  At 
a  time  when,  though  powerful  on  the  ocean,  she  could  not  yet  pretend 
to  rule  her  rivals  out  of  it,  and  when  Spain,  in  the  palmiest  days  of 
her  strength  and  glory,  and  aided  by  the  bulls  of  the  Pope,  was  claim- 
ing titles  to  all  the  lands  and  seas  of  the  two  Americas,  the  nations  of 
this  hemisphere  sent  ambassadors  to  the  English  court  and  loudly 
complained  of  the  devastations  which  an  illustrious  navigator,  Sir 
Francis  Drake,  was  committing  on  her  domains.  Elizabeth,  the  super- 
cilious and  unbending,  in  answering  their  complaints,  said : 

"  The  use  of  the  sea  and  of  the  air  is  common  to  all.  No  people 
nor  private  person  can  claim  any  power  over  the  ocean ;  for  neither 
its  nature  nor  its  public  usage  will  allow  its  being  occupied." 

We  find,  it  is  true,  in  all  ages,  nations  who,  being  more  especially 
addicted  to  commerce  and  navigation,  obtain,  for  a  time,  what  the 
writers  on  the  law  of  nations  would  call  a  prepotency  over  the  sea ; 
but,  even  under  that  prepotency,  they  never  pretended  to  be  the  sole 
tenants  of  it.  Tyre,  Khodes,  Athens,  Lacedaemon,  Carthage,  and 
Borne  herself  never  claimed  its  absolute  and  exclusive  enjoyment,  but 
suffered  other  nations  to  enjoy  it  with  them. 

Though  it  was  said  of  the  Carthaginians  that  they  exercised  such 
a  power  over  the  sea  as  to  render  its  navigation  dangerous — adeo 


142  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

potentes  mari,  ut  omnibus  mortalibus  namgatio  periculosa  esset — yet 
they  but  aimed  at  a  nominal  supremacy ;  and  therefore  it  is  that, 
according  to  Strabo,  "  they  carried  their  commercial  jealousy  so  far  as 
to  interdict  the  nations  who  contested  with  her  for  that  supremacy 
from  landing  upon  their  coasts,  and  to  sink  all  vessels  with  which  her 
own  met  directing  their  course  towards  Sardinia,  or  towards  what 
was  called  afterwards  Gibraltar." 

I  read  in  a  most  lucid  and  interesting  treatise  on  the  right  of  prop- 
erty, by  Comte,  that  though  the  shores  of  the  sea  which  formed  part  of 
the  Roman  Empire  were  considered  the  property  of  the  Roman  people, 
the  use  of  them  was  held  to  be  common  to  all  mankind  for  fishing  and 
navigable  purposes ;  and  that  though  the  authority  of  the  praetor  was 
necessary  to  warrant  the  construction  thereon  of  any  buildings,  the 
want  of  such  an  authority  did  not  involve  the  destruction  of  the 
works,  if  not  injurious  to  fishing  or  navigation,  or  the  cause  of  damage 
to  others ;  and  the  sole  object  of  the  authority  required  seems  to  have 
been  to  ascertain  and  establish  the  sovereignty  of  the  Roman  people 
over  coasts  which  formed  part  of  their  territories. 

"  The  sea  and  its  shores,"  says  the  Roman  law,  "  are  as  common 
and  free  to  all  men  as  the  air  itself ;  and  no  person  can  be  prohibited 
from  fishing  in  it."  Accordingly,  the  Emperor  Antoninus,  to  whom 
remonstrances  were  made  against  the  inhabitants  of  the  Cyclades,  who 
interrupted  the  navigation  of  their  neighbors,  appropriately  answered, 
"  that  he  was  the  lord  of  the  land ;  but  that  law  alone  was  sovereign 
over  the  sea." 

In  more  modern  times,  the  Dutch  gave  a  remarkable  proof  of 
their  pertinacity  to  resist  the  claims  of  England  over  the  immediate 
seas  bordering  on  her  coast ;  albeit  the  treaty  of  1654  is  quoted  as  con- 
taining on  the  part  of  Holland  a  full  acknowledgment  of  England's 
sovereignty  over  the  sea.  How  impotent  must  the  teachings  of  his- 
tory be,  that  such  errors  can  obtain  credit  and  be  received  as  truth ! 
Holland  had  sustained  a  protracted  and  most  disastrous  war  against 
England,  and  from  impending  exhaustion  had  agreed  to  the  main  con- 
dition of  a  treaty  of  peace  as  early  as  1561.  The  Long  Parliament 
insisted  upon  an  article  being  inserted  in  the  treaty  by  which  Eng- 
land's sovereignty  should  be  recognized  and  her  flag  saluted  whenever 
it  might  appear  on  the  high  seas.  This  Holland  bravely  and  peremp- 
torily refused.  The  war  continued  three  years  longer,  and  the  treaty 
could  not  be  signed,  until  the  obnoxious  clause  had  been  stricken 
out,  and  another  inserted  in  its  place,  granting  the  salute  also,  it 
is  true,  but  as  a  mere  mark  of  deference  and  courtesy  alone. 

Thus,  as  it  seems,  the  concurrence  of  mankind  repelled  all  attempts 
at  transforming  the  ocean  into  a  thing  manageable  and  compressible, 


THE  HIGHWAY  OF  NATIONS.  143 

capable  of  being  reduced  to  possession,  and  therefore  susceptible  of 
ownership. 

Now,  the  use  of  the  ocean  belongs  to  man  and  nations  in  so  far 
only  as  it  is  being  exercised.  It  is  a  right  to  such  alone  as  exercise  it, 
for  the  time  they  exercise  it,  and  within  the  space  over  which  it  is 
exercised.  As  soon  as  it  is  abstained  from,  the  right  ceases — it  is  at 
an  end — gone.  "  Cum  igitur  nil  nisi  usus  maris  et  littorum  occupari 
possit,  facile  constat  jus  hoc  utendi  tantum  dictare  quamdiu  quis  utitur 
et  quatenus  utitur." 

The  ocean,  therefore,  is  free.  Yet  will  some  say :  May  not  its 
dominion  be  conferred  from  one  nation  to  another — by  all  men  to 
one  ?  It  is  clear  that  it  cannot.  Concede  this,  and  what  becomes  of 
its  freedom  ?  If  its  sovereignty  can  be  conferred,  it  can  be  conquered : 
and,  if  so,  it  becomes  at  once  the  property  of  the  first  occupant  or  of 
the  strongest.  Force,  in  the  one  case,  will  be  as  legitimate  as  injustice 
in  the  other.  Even  its  enjoyment  could  not  be  of  one  man  and  of  one 
nation,  without  all  other  nations  and  men  renouncing  the  right  which 
nature  has  given  equally  to  them  all. 

•X--55-****** 

But  this  is  no  longer  insisted  upon.  It  has  grown  obsolete ;  it  is 
not  as  much  as  thought  of,  unless,  indeed,  it  be  by  some  incorrigible 
tyro  of  the  school  of  Selden,  or  some  fanatic  and  blind  admirer  of 
every  dictum  that  ever  fell  from  the  fertile  pen  of  Grotius. 


IMPORTANT  PUBLIC   SEEVICES   OF  HENRY  CLAY.* 

BY    THEODORE    H.    M'CALEB. 

[THEODORE  HOWARD  M'CAI.EB  was  born  in  Pendleton  District,  S.  C.,  February  10, 
1810.  He  was  educated  at  Phillips  Exeter  Academy  and  at  Yale  College.  In  1832  he 
settled  in  New  Orleans,  and  was,  in  due  course,  admitted  to  the  Louisiana  bar.  In  1846 
President  Polk  appointed  him  United  States  District  Judge  of  Louisiana.  This  position 
he  held  until  the  secession  of  the  State.  He  was  for  three  years  president  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Louisiana,  and  for  almost  seventeen  years  professor  of  International  and  Admiralty 
law  in  the  same  institution.  He  died  at  Hermitage  Plantation,  Miss.,  April  29,  1864.] 

BUT  it  is  rather  as  citizens  of  the  Union  that  we  love  to  dwell  upon 
the  services  of  Mr.  Clay.  We  love  to  recur  to  that  dark  period  in  our 
history,  made  glorious  by  American  valor  and  American  genius;  a 
period  when  the  Republic  was  called  upon  to  vindicate  her  honor 
against  wrongs  committed  upon  her  commerce  by  England  and 
France,  under  the  Berlin  and  Milan  decrees,  and  the  British  orders 
in  council.  Under  the  pretext  of  prosecuting  legitimate  hostilities  in 
pursuance  of  these  retaliatory  measures,  the  most  atrocious  depreda- 
tions were  committed  by  both  nations  upon  our  neutral  trade.  And 
while  France  was  induced  by  our  stern  remonstrances  to  abandon  her 
unjust  and  abominable  policy,  so  far  at  least  as  it  related  to  American 
vessels,  England  continued  to  persevere  in  her  course  of  arrogance  and 
oppression,  until  an  indignant  people  demanded  vengeance  for  her  un- 
provoked hostilities  upon  the  property  of  our  merchants,  and  for  her 
barbarous  impressment  of  our  mariners  while  pursuing  their  peaceful 
avocations  upon  the  highway  of  nations. 

This  important  crisis  in  our  affairs  occurred  in  1811,  during  the 
administration  of  Mr.  Madison.  Mr.  Clay  was  then  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Representatives,  and  had  been  elected  its  presiding  officer. 
The  mind  of  the  amiable  President  was  inclined  to  peace,  though  he 
afterwards  proved  firm  when  his  resolution  was  once  taken.  _A  pacific 
policy  was  also  recommended  by  Mr.  Gallatin,  then  at  the  head  of  the 
Treasury  Department.  Against  every  measure  tending  to  a  declara- 
tion of  hostilities  were  arrayed  the  powerful  talents  of  Mr.  Randolph, 
of  Virginia,  and  Mr.  Quincy,  of  Massachusetts.  It  is  not  difficult, 
however,  to  imagine  what  would  be  the  conduct  of  Mr.  Clay  in  such 
an  emergency.  Like  the  Antaeus  of  ancient  fable,  he  rose  with  renewed 
and  redoubled  vigor,  under  the  Herculean  pressure  of  opposition  that 

*  [From  an  oration  delivered  in  Odd  Fellows'  Hall,  New  Orleans,  December  9, 1852.] 


IMPORTANT  PUBLIC  SERVICES  OF  HENRY  CLAY.  145 

attempted  to  bear  him  to  the  earth.  He  was  then  in  the  prime  of 
life,  "  with  the  rose  of  heaven  upon  his  cheek,  and  the  fire  of  liberty 
in  his  eye."  He  saw  that  there  was  but  one  course  to  be  pursued 
for  the  vindication  of  the  insulted  honor  of  the  country,  and  for  a 
prompt  and  effectual  redress  of  her  accumulated  wrongs — and  that 
course  involved  a  declaration  of  war.  He  advocated  the  embargo 
laws,  because  the  measure  was  a  direct  precursor  to  war ;  he  advocated 
the  increase  of  the  army  and  navy,  and  every  other  measure  that 
would  lead  to  the  declaration  of  hostilities.  Side  by  side  with  Mr. 
Calhoun  he  nobly  sustained  the  honor  of  the  country.  High  above 
their  compeers  shone  these  two  young  and  gallant  champions  of  the 
Republic — the  Tancred  and  Rinaldo  of  political  chivalry.  The  con- 
duct of  Mr.  Clay  on  that  memorable  occasion  cannot,  perhaps,  be 
better  described  than  by  adopting  the  language  of  a  member  of  Con- 
gress, wTho  was  a  personal  witness  of  the  effect  of  his  eloquence  upon 
the  crowds  who  daily  hung  upon  his  thrilling  accents.  "  On  this  oc- 
casion," said  he,  "  Mr.  Clay  was  a  flame  of  fire.  He  had  now  brought 
Congress  to  the  verge  of  what  he  conceived  a  war  for  liberty  and 
honor,  and  his  voice  rang  through  the  Capitol  like  a  trumpet-tone 
sounding  for  the  onset.  On  the  subject  of  the  policy  of  the  embargo, 
his  eloquence,  like  a  Macedonian  phalanx,  bore  down  all  opposition, 
and  he  put  to  shame  those  of  his  opponents  who  flouted  the  Govern- 
ment on  being  unprepared  for  war." 

His  great  object  was  finally  accomplished.  War  was  declared. 
The  military  and  naval  resources  of  the  country  were  called  into 
requisition,  and  both  on  the  land  and  on  the  ocean  the  honor  of  the 
country  was  gloriously  sustained. 

In  consequence  of  the  friendly  interposition  of  the  Emperor  Alex- 
ander of  Russia,  a  willingness  was  expressed  by  the  Ministry  of  Eng- 
land to  negotiate  with  our  Government  a  treaty  of  peace.  Mr.  Clay 
and  Mr.  Russell  were  appointed  by  Mr.  Madison,  Commissioners  for 
this  purpose,  and  accordingly  Mr.  Clay,  on  the  19th  of  January,  1814, 
resigned  his  station  as  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Representatives,  and 
proceeded  on  his  mission  to  Ghent.  He  was  there  joined  by  Messrs. 
Adams,  Gallatin,  and  Bayard,  who  had  left  St.  Petersburg  and  repaired 
to  the  place  appointed  for  the  meeting  of  the  Commissioners,  for  the 
purpose  of  aiding  in  the  arrangement  of  the  terms  of  peace.  The 
treaty  was  signed  in  December,  1814.  Afterwards  a  commercial  con- 
vention, highly  advantageous  to  the  trade  and  navigation  of  the  coun- 
try, was  concluded  in  London  by  three  of  the  Commissioners  of  Ghent ; 
viz.,  Messrs.  Adams,  Clay,  and  Gallatin. 

The  public  career  of  Mr.  Clay  was  subsequently  distinguished  by 
the  able,  eloquent,  and  untiring  support  he  gave  to  the  cause  of  Inter- 
10 


146  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

nal  Improvement,  and  to  the  protection  of  Domestic  Industry.  Let 
the  mere  sectional  politician  say  what  he  may,  these  measures  were 
absolutely  necessary  to  enable  the  country  to  develop  with  rapidity 
her  great  natural  resources,  and  to  secure  her  independence  of  the 
manufactories  of  Europe.  Those  who  would  properly  appreciate  the 
services  of  Mr.  Clay  must  look  to  the  situation  of  the  country  while 
she  was  yet  young  and  in  a  comparatively  feeble  state ;  and  not  to 
her  present  prosperous  position,  with  her  great  facilities  for  inter- 
national communication,  and  for  prompt  and  rapid  transportation 
from  State  to  State ;  nor  to  her  splendid  manufactories,  which  are  soon 
destined  not  only  to  rival,  but  to  surpass  establishments  of  the  same 
character  in  the  Old  World.  Nor  should  we  limit  our  inquiry  to  the 
condition  of  the  country  in  time  of  peace ;  but  we  should  view  the 
subject  as  the  great  statesman  himself  was  accustomed  to  view  it, 
with  reference  to  the  contingency  of  war,  and  to  those  calamities 
which  war  must  inevitably  entail  upon  every  great  commercial  nation. 
What  would  be  the  condition  of  our  country  without  manufactures, 
and  without  the  facilities  of  transportation  from  one  part  of  the  Union 
to  the  other,  for  cannon  and  other  munitions  of  war,  while  the  fleets 
of  a  powerful  enemy  are  sweeping  the  ocean,  and  prowling  along  our 
coasts  ?  The  policy  of  Mr.  Clay  demanded  the  aid  of  Government  for 
the  prosecution  of  what  individual  resources  and  individual  energy  in 
the  earlier  period  of  our  history  were  inadequate  to  accomplish.  He 
aimed  at  the  security  of  our  commercial  independence,  and  of  our 
internal  prosperity,  at  all  times,  and  in  every  emergency. 

With  the  zeal  displayed  by  our  great  champion  of  universal  liberty 
in  the  cause  of  South  American  and  Grecian  independence,  you  are 
all  familiar.  His  speech  in  support  of  his  proposition  to  send  a  min- 
ister to  the  United  Provinces  of  the  Eio  de  la  Plata  is  one  of  the  ablest 
and  most  elaborate  arguments  which  emanated  from  the  illustrious 
statesman  during  his  whole  public  career.  It  is  full  of  historical 
information  and  statistical  details,  and  evinces  by  its  laborious  research 
the  deep,  heartfelt  anxiety  of  its  author  to  secure  for  the  colonies  the 
encouragement  of  our  own  Government,  in  the  establishment  of  that 
political  independence  for  which  they  were  nobly  contending.  His 
speech  in  support  of  Mr.  Webster's  proposition  to  send  a  commissioner 
to  Greece  is  a  short  but  gallant  appeal  in  behalf  of  a  people  in  whose 
favor  the  sympathies  of  every  humane  heart  would  be  naturally  en- 
listed. There  cannot  be  presented  to  the  imagination  of  a  friend  of 
liberty  a  spectacle  grander  and  more  imposing  than  was  exhibited  in 
the  Congress  of  our  Eepublic,  when  Clay  and  Webster,  the  great  ora- 
tors of  America,  stood  forth  the  undaunted  advocates  of  the  restora- 
tion of  freedom  to  the  land  of  Pericles  and  Demosthenes. 


IMPORTANT  PUBLIC  SERVICES  OF  HENRY  CLAY.  147 

The  exertions  of  Mr.  Clay  in  behalf  of  both  South  America  and 
Greece  were  zealously  continued  during  the  time  he  was  at  the  head 
of  the  Department  of  State  under  the  administration  of  Mr.  Adams ; 
and  with  what  success  we  shall  presently  have  occasion  to  notice. 

As  a  diplomatist,  his  abilities  were  displayed  to  the  greatest 
advantage.  In  the  negotiations  which  led  to  the  Treaty  of  Ghent,  he 
wielded  "  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer ; "  while  his  excellent  judgment, 
great  prudence,  and  practical  intelligence  rendered  him  at  all  times  an 
efficient  coadjutor  and  a  safe  councillor  of  his  distinguished  associates 
in  the  commission.  He  not  only  aided  in  bringing  to  an  honorable 
close  the  war  of  1812,  but  subsequently  also,  in  conjunction  with 
Messrs.  Adams  and  Gallatin,  as  we  have  already  seen,  in  securing  by 
the  Commercial  Convention  signed  in  London,  on  the  3d  of  July, 
1815,  those  reciprocal  advantages  for  our  commerce  and  navigation, 
which  proved  to  be  so  effectual  in  enabling  our  enterprising  mer- 
chants to  recover  from  the  paralyzing  consequences  of  the  war. 
His  easy  and  conciliatory  deportment,  his  perfect  freedom  from  all 
duplicity,  and  from  that  mysterious,  enigmatical  style  of  conducting 
diplomatic  conferences,  once  so  common  at  the  different  courts  of 
Europe,  gained  for  him  the  respect  and  confidence  of  the  English 
negotiators. 

The  prudence  and  wisdom  of  Mr.  Madison  were  never  more  hap- 
pily displayed  than  in  the  appointment  of  the  members  of  the  Com- 
mission to  adjust  our  difficulties  with  Great  Britain.  There  was 
Adams,  learned  on  all  subjects,  and  fortified  by  a  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  international  law ;  there  was  Gallatin,  ready  in  all  financial 
details,  and  familiar  with  the  commerce  of  the  globe ;  and  there  was 
Clay,  bearing  the  reputation  of  an  orator  of  rare  abilities,  quick  to 
discover  an  advantage,  and  prompt  in  turning  it  to  the  interest  of  his 
cause,  ever  active,  ever  vigilant,  looking  alike  to  the  present  honor 
and  ultimate  prosperity  of  the  country.  Such  an  array  of  talent  and 
ability  could  not  fail  to  exert  a  favorable  impression  on  the  diploma- 
tists of  the  proud  nation  before  whom  the  rights  of  our  young  Eepub- 
lic  were  to  be  vindicated,  and  her  high  character  maintained.  It 
formed  an  appropriate  sequel  to  the  gallant  exploits  of  our  Army  and 
Navy.  England  learned,  for  the  first  time,  that  she  was  neither  the 
mistress  of  the  ocean,  nor  the  undisputed  arbiter  of  nations ;  that  we 
not  only  possessed  a  power  to  check  her  progress  upon  the  land  and 
upon  the  ocean,  but  also  a  moral  and  intellectual  ability  to  teach  her 
the  great  and  immutable  principles  of  international  justice. 

It  has  been  truly  said  that  the  diplomacy  of  our  country  was  never 
more  efficiently  conducted  than  during  the  time  our  foreign  relations 
were  committed  to  Mr.  Clay.  The  number  of  treaties  he  negotiated 


148  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

while  at  the  head  of  the  Department  of  State,  was  greater  than  all 
that  had  been  previously  concluded  there,  from  the  adoption  of  the 
Constitution.*  He  concluded  and  signed  treaties  with  Colombia  and 
Central  America,  with  Denmark,  Prussia,  and  the  Hanseatic  League. 
He  also  effected  a  negotiation  with  Russia  for  the  settlement  of  the 
claims  of  American  citizens,  and  concluded  a  treaty  with  Austria,  but 
left  the  Department  before  it  Avas  signed.  His  letters  to  Mr.  Gallatin, 
while  the  latter  was  our  Minister  at  London,  upon  the  subject  of  our 
trade  with  the  British  colonies,  and  the  navigation  of  the  St.  Law- 
rence, have  ever  been  regarded  as  documents  of  rare  value  in  the 
history  of  our  negotiations,  and  have  deservedly  placed  the  writer 
among  the  most  accomplished  diplomatists  of  the  age.  Another  state 
paper,  which  has  probably  gained  him  more  reputation  than  all  others 
which  have  emanated  from  his  pen,  is  his  letter  of  instructions  to  the 
Delegation  to  the  Congress  of  Panama.  But  that  which  will  in  all 
time  secure  to  his  memory  the  veneration  of  every  ardent  lover  of 
liberty  is  his  successful  appeal  to  the  Emperor  of  Russia,  through  our 
Minister  at  St.  Petersburg  (Mr.  Middleton),  to  contribute  his  exertions 
towards  terminating  the  war  which  was  then  raging  between  Spain 
and  her  South  American  colonies.  He  was  equally  successful  in 
obtaining  the  acquiescence  of  the  same  great  power  in  the  recognition 
of  the  independence  of  Greece.  His  strenuous  exertions  while  he  was 
Secretary  of  State,  in  connection  with  the  noble  efforts  previously 
made  by  himself  and  Mr.  Webster,  upon  the  proposition  of  the  latter 
to  send  a  commissioner  to  Greece,  were  mainly  instrumental  in  excit- 
ing the  sympathies  of  Europe  in  favor  of  the  struggling  people  of  that 
ancient  home  of  freedom ;  and  in  securing  to  them  a  recognition  of 
those  constitutional  guarantees  for  the  protection  of  their  rights  under 
a  limited  monarchy,  for  which  they  had  long  contended.  And  now, 
in  the  musical  strains  of  Whittier : 

"The  Grecian  as  he  feeds  his  flocks 
In  Tempe's  vale,  on  Morea's  rocks, 
Or  where  the  gleam  of  bright  blue  waters 
Is  caught  by  Scio's  white-armed  daughters, 
While  dwelling  on  the  dubious  strife 
Which  ushered  in  his  nation's  life, 
Shall  mingle  in  his  grateful  lay 
Bozzaris  with  the  name  of  CLAY." 

*  Life  of  Mr.  Clay,  by  Epes  Sargent. 


COLLEGIATE   EDUCATION.* 

BY    CHRISTIAN    ROSELIUS. 

[CHRISTIAN  ROSELIUS  was  born  August  10,  1803,  in  Theddinghausen,  Brunswick, 
Germany.  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  left  his  native  land  for  New  Orleans  on  board  the 
bark  Jupiter  ;  and  his  indigent  condition  compelled  him,  in  payment  of  his  passage,  to 
pledge  his  services  for  a  few  years  after  his  arrival  in  port.  His  contract  of  apprentice- 
ship he  carried  out  to  the  letter,  and  some  time  afterwards  established  and  edited  The 
Halcyon.  In  1823  he  was  admitted  to  the  Louisiana  bar,  and  about  eight  years  later 
was  appointed  Attorney-General  of  the  State.  It  was  during  his  term  in  that  office  that 
Daniel  Webster  invited  him  to  become  his  law  partner  in  Washington  ;  but  Roselius, 
out  of  love  for  life  in  New  Orleans,  declined  the  invitation.  He  was  for  many  years 
Dean  of  the  University  of  Louisiana,  and  for  the  last  twenty-three  years  of  his  life  was 
Professor  of  Civil  Law  in  the  Law  Department  of  that  institution.  His  lectures  on  the 
Civil  Code  of  Louisiana,  his  opinions  as  Attorney-General,  and  his  briefs  as  an  advocate 
before  the  courts,  display  a  lucid  reasoning  and  grasp  of  the  law,  at  once  profound  and 
philosophic.  He  died  in  New  Orleans,  September  5,  1873.] 

THE  question  has  been  sneeringly  asked,  Of  what  practical  benefit 
is  the  knowledge  of  Greek  and  Latin,  and  the  higher  branches  of 
mathematics,  to  those  who  do  not  intend  to  enter  the  learned  profes- 
sions ?  Persons  who  propound  such  questions  seem  to  have  lost  sight 
of  the  fact,  that  the  great  and  paramount  object  of  education  is  the 
development  and  strengthening  of  the  powers  of  the  mind,  and  that 
that  important  end  can  only  be  attained  by  exercising  and  disciplining 
the  mental  faculties.  Now,  every  one  who  has  bestowed  the  least 
consideration  on  the  subject  must  know  that  nothing  is  better  calcu- 
lated to  fix  the  attention,  and  to  induce  thought  and  reflection,-  than 
the  study  of  the  dead  languages  and  the  mathematics.  Indeed,  it  is 
obvious  that  not  one  step  can  be  taken  in  these  studies  without  bring- 
ing nearly  all  the  mental  powers  into  active  operation.  It  is  therefore 
manifest  that,  without  insisting,  for  the  present,  at  all  on  the  manifold 
other  advantages  resulting  from  a  proficiency  in  classic  literature,  and 
the  mathematical  and  natural  sciences,  the  study  of  these  branches  of 
knowledge  is,  at  any  rate,  of  incalculable  benefit  as  the  means  of 
accomplishing  the  great  end  of  education — the  improvement  of  the 
mind. 

It  is  said  that  Wisdom  does  not  speak  to  her  followers  in  Latin, 
*  [Reprinted  from  Ross's  Southern  Speaker  (1856).] 


150  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

Greek,  and  Hebrew  only,  but  that  she  teaches  her  sublime  lessons  in 
the  pages  of  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  a  brilliant  con- 
stellation of  other  authors,  who  have  all  written  in  our  own  nervous 
vernacular.  This  is  true.  But  let  me  ask,  What  class  of  readers  nour- 
ish their  minds  with  the  strong,  healthy,  and  invigorating  food  set 
before  them  by  these  writers  ?  Certainly  not  those  whose  taste  has 
been  cloyed,  and  whose  powers  of  digestion  have  been  enfeebled,  if 
not  entirely  destroyed,  by  feeding  on  the  pap  and  sweetmeats  of  most 
of  the  popular  authors  of  the  day.  Not  one  reader  in  a  thousand  who 
pores  with  delight  over  the  glittering  inanities  of  Bulwer,  or  the  vapid 
sentimentalities  of  James,  will  ever  venture  to  read  a  hundred  lines  of 
the  Paradise  Lost  or  a  single  scene  of  Hamlet.  There  is  a  craving 
and  insatiable  appetite  for  novelty,  which  is  constantly  increased  by  the 
trash  it  feeds  on.  How  can  this  mental  malady  be  cured,  unless  it  be 
by  forming  the  taste  and  judgment  of  the  youthful  student  by  a  care- 
ful study  and  contemplation  of  the  great  models  of  antiquity?  In 
them  alone  do  we  find  that  wonderful  artistic  perfection  which  the 
moderns  have  attempted  to  imitate  in  vain.  Homer  as  a  poet,  Demos- 
thenes as  an  orator,  and  Thucydides  as  an  historian,  still  stand,  each 
in  his  own  department,  in  solitary  grandeur,  unrivalled  and  unapproach- 
able. "  The  poems  of  Homer,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  we  yet  know  not 
to  transcend  the  common  limits  of  human  intelligence,  but  by  remark- 
ing that  nation  after  nation,  and  century  after  century,  has  been  able 
to  do  little  more  than  transpose  his  incidents,  new  name  his  characters, 
and  paraphrase  his  sentiments." 

Keference  is  frequently  made,  by  those  who  take  the  opposite  view 
of  this  subject,  to  instances  of  what  are  called  self-made  men,  for  the 
purpose  of  proving  that  a  liberal  education  is  not  an  essential  requisite 
for  the  attainment  of  intellectual  distinction.  We  are  told  that  the 
Bard  of  Avon  "  had  little  Latin,  and  less  Greek ; "  that  Kobert  Burns 
was  a  peasant ;  that  Pope  was  the  best  Greek  scholar  of  his  age,  and 
has  translated  the  sublime  poetry  of  Homer  into  English,  with  all  the 
vigor  and  freshness  of  the  original,  yet  he  never  was  inside  of  a  col- 
lege. All  this  is  true ;  and  other  examples  might  be  added  to  the  list. 
But,  allow  me  to  ask,  What  does  this  prove  against  the  correctness 
of  the  propositions  which  we  have  been  endeavoring  to  establish  ? 
There  are  exceptions  to  all  general  rules,  and  one  of  the  most  familiar 
maxims  of  logic  is,  that  the  exception  proves  the  rule.  Now,  that  we 
meet  occasionally  with  a  mind  so  happily  organized,  and  endowed  with 
such  a  degree  of  energy  and  will,  as  to  grapple  successfully  with  the 
disadvantages  of  a  neglected  or  stinted  education,  and  "  climb  the  steep 
where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar,"  does  surely  not  prove  any- 
thing against  the  benefits  and  necessity  of  collegiate  instruction  and 


COLLEGIATE  EDUCATION.  151 

discipline.  Besides,  who  can  tell,  except  those  that  have  gone  through 
the  ordeal,  by  what  privation,  labor,  and  application  such  persons 
have  been  enabled  to  travel  over  the  rugged  paths  to  knowledge,  and- 
thereby  provide  something  like  a  substitute  for  early  and  regular 
training  ?  And  how  many  have  ever  been  successful  in  the  attempt  ? 
Not  one  in  ten  thousand. 


EFFECTS   OF  IGNOKANCE  AMONG  THE  MASSES.* 

BY   CHRISTIAN   EOSELIUS. 

WHAT  are  the  amusements  of  the  ignorant  ?  They  must  necessarily 
consist,  and  be  limited,  in  a  great  measure,  to  the  gratification  of  the 
sensual  appetites,  the  inevitable  consequences  of  an  abuse  of  which  are 
a  debilitated  body  and  a  depraved  heart.  Nearly  all  the  avenues  to 
the  higher  enjoyments  of  the  soul  are  closed  up  to  the  ignorant ;  they 
look  with  a  vacant  stare  at  the  wonderful  and  beautiful  works  of  an 
all- wise  Creator ;  their  eyes  cannot  understandingly  behold  the  admir- 
able harmony  of  nature ;  nay,  the  greatest  of  all  blessings  vouchsafed 
to  man— the  inestimable  comforts  and  consolations  of  religion — can- 
not be  enjoyed  and  appreciated  by  them  to  the  same  extent  as  those 
whose  mental  faculties  and  moral  perceptions  have  been  awakened 
and  sharpened  by  education  and  religious  training.  And  yet  we  hear 
intelligent  persons  talk  of  the  danger  of  over-educating  the  people. 
Let  me  ask,  What  would  become  of  our  liberty,  our  admirable  system 
of  government,  and  our  glorious  Union,  if  it  was  not  for  the  education 
and  intelligence  of  the  people  ?  Destroy  these,  and  the  beautiful 
fabric  will  crumble  into  dust,  and  like  "an  insubstantial  pageant 
faded,  leave  not  a  rack  behind."  Look  at  the  pages  of  history ;  and 
by  whose  instrumentality  has  human  freedom  been  invariably  crushed, 
and  despotism  and  oppression  established  in  its  place  ?  By  the  igno- 
rant masses  of  the  people,  led  on  by  designing  and  unscrupulous 
demagogues. 

Take,  as  an  illustration  of  this  position,  the  last  French  revolution, 
or,  as  it  is  called,  the  coup  d'etat  of  Louis  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  Here 
we  see  the  president  of  a  republic,  electee!  by  his  fellow-citizens,  sworn 
to  support  that  constitution  from  which  alone  he  derived  his  power, 
deliberately  commit  perjury,  murder,  and  treason,  and  thereby  consti- 
tute himself  the  master  of  the  very  people  whose  servant  he  had  been ; 
and  the  stupid  populace  shout,  and  assist  in  riveting  the  chains  by 
which  they  are  enslaved.  Would  any  President  of  the  United  States, 
however  daring  and  ambitious  he  might  be,  ever  dream  of  such  an  act 
of  usurpation,  even  if  he  had  an  army  of  five  hundred  thousand 

*  [Reprinted  from  Ross's  Southern  Speaker  (1856).] 


EFFECTS  OF  IGNORANCE  AMONG   THE  MASSES.  153 

soldiers  at  his  command  ?  Certainly  not ;  for  he  would  know  that 
the  majority  of  the  people  who  had  elevated  him  to  the  highest  office 
in  their  gift  are  too  well  educated  and  too  intelligent  to  be  made  tools 
of  in  his  hands  for  the  destruction  of  their  own  freedom ;  that,  under- 
standing and  appreciating  their  liberty,  the  first  act  of  usurpation 
would  be  visited  by  the  most  condign  punishment,  not  by  the  assassin's 
dagger,  but  by  the  awful  decree  of  the  violated  majesty  of  the  law. 


ON  THE   QUESTION  OF  THE  ANNEXATION  OF  CUBA 
TO  THE  UNITED   STATES.* 


BY    JUDAH    P.    BENJAMIN. 


MR.  PRESIDENT,  there  is  one  paramount  principle  affecting  this 
whole  question  of  annexation,  which  our  self-respect  requires  us  to 
present  prominently  before  the  world.  It  is,  that  in  the  expansion  of 
our  system,  we  seek  no  conquest,  subjugate  no  people,  impose  our  laws 
on  no  unwilling  subjects.  When  new  territory  is  brought  under  our 
jurisdiction,  the  inhabitants  are  admitted  to  all  the  rights  of  self-gov- 
ernment. Let  no  attempt  be  made  to  confuse  this  subject  by  the  use 
of  inappropriate  terms.  It  is  the  fallacy  lurking  under  the  use  of  the 
word  "belongs,"  of  which  despots  make  use.  Cuba  "belongs"  to 
Spain.  True.  But  in  what  sense?  New  York  "belongs"  to  the 
United  States,  also ;  but  in  what  sense  ? 

Cuba  is  subject  to  Spanish  sovereignty.  Her  people  now  owe  alle- 
giance to  Spain ;  but  the  island  does  not  belong  to  Spain  as  property 
belongs  to  an  individual.  The  Cubans  are  not  the  property  of  the 
Crown.  Nay,  the  soil  of  the  island  belongs  to  private  proprietors. 
The  right  of  Spain,  as  a  proprietary  right,  extends  only  to  the  public 
places  on  the  island  not  disposed  of  to  private  individuals,  and  to  such 
revenues  as  she  can  lawfully  and  legitimately  exact  from  her  subjects. 
But,  sir,  from  the  date  of  our  independence,  we  have  had  fixed  princi- 
ples on  the  subject  of  the  true  proprietorship  of  countries.  The  fun- 
damental theory  of  our  Government  is,  that  the  people  of  all  countries 
are  the  true  and  only  owners ;  that  governments  are  established  for 
their  benefit ;  and  that  whenever  governments  become  subversive  of 
the  true  ends  of  their  institution,  it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to  alter 
and  abolish  them.  The  island  of  Cuba  belongs,  not  to  Queen  Isabella, 
but  to  the  people  who  inhabit  it,  and  who  alone  have  the  right  to 
decide  under  what  government  they  choose  to  live. 

Now,  Mr.  President,  I  desire  to  say,  in  a  few  words,  what  my  view 
is  in  relation  to  the  policy  of  this  country.  I  would  propose,  as  the 
President  proposes,  the  purchase  of  the  island  of  Cuba  from  the  gov- 
ernment of  Spain.  If  that  be  refused,  if  it  be  supposed  that  Spanish 
pride  or  Spanish  dignity  is  involved  in  the  proposition  to  such  an 

*  [  From  a  speech  delivered  in  the  Senate  Chamber  of  the  United  States,  February 
12,  1859.] 


THE  ANNEXATION  OF  CUBA    TO   THE  UNITED  STATES.      155 

extent  as  to  make  it  impossible  for  them  to  cede  it,  I  would  then  say 
to  Spain  :  "  If  you  will  not  cede  the  island  to  us,  grant  independence 
to  your  subjects  there,  and  we  will  pay  you  a  reasonable  equivalent 
for  the  abandonment  of  your  revenues,  and  make  settlement  hereafter 
with  the  people  of  Cuba  for  our  advances." 

If  this  offer  be  again  refused,  then  let  us  announce  to  Spain  in 
advance,  that  whenever  opportunity  shall  occur  we  are  ready  and 
resolute  to  offer  to  the  people  of  Cuba  the  same  aid  that  England 
offered  to  the  other  Spanish  colonies  ;  the  same  alliance,  offensive  and 
defensive,  which  France  so  nobly  tendered  to  us  in  the  hour  of  our 
darkest  peril.  Tell  her  that  we  shall  repair  the  wrong  by  us  done  to 
the  generation  now  passing  away  in  Cuba  when  we  impeded  their 
efforts  for  gaining  their  independence,  by  affording  to  the  present  gen- 
eration our  aid,  countenance,  and  assistance.  Tell  her  that,  when  the 
Cubans  shall  have  conquered  their  independence,  theirs  shall  be  the 
right  of  remaining  a  separate  republic,  if  they  so  prefer ;  that  we  will 
cherish,  aid,  and  protect  them  from  all  foreign  interference,  and  will 
draw  close  the  bonds  of  a  mutual,  social,  and  commercial  intercourse, 
that  shall  be  of  incalculable  benefit  to  both.  Tell  her,  too,  that  if  the 
people  of  the  island,  with  their  independence  once  acquired,  and  repub- 
lican institutions  established,  shall  desire  to  unite  themselves  with  us, 
they  shall  be  admitted  to  the  equal  benefits  which  our  system  of  gov- 
ernment secures  to  each  independent  State  that  enters  into  its  charmed 
circle.  She  shall  unite  with  us  freely,  the  equal  associate  of  free 
States ;  and  when  the  union  shall  have  been  accomplished,  the  sword 
of  the  nation  shall  smite  down  any  rude  hand  that  shall  attempt  to 
sunder  those  whom  the  God  of  freedom  has  united. 


NEGROES  AS   PBOPEKTY.* 

BY   JtTDAH    P.    BENJAMIN. 

[Ms.  PRESIDENT:]  The  Senator  from  Yermont  [Mr.  Collamer] 
repeats  what  I  deem  the  legal  heresy  of  saying  that  slaves  are  not  prop- 
erty. I  had,  some  twelve  or  eighteen  months  ago,  a  debate  with  the 
honorable  Senator  from  Vermont  on  that  subject,  and  I  do  not  mean 
to  repeat  what  was  then  said  any  further  than  I  can  avoid ;  but  upon 
that  occasion  I  assumed  to  show  that,  from  the  time  negroes  were 
first  known  in  Europe  and  America,  up  to  the  time  that  Lord  Mans- 
field made  his  decision  in  the  Sommersett  case,  they  never  had  existed 
except  as  slaves.  I  showed  that  they  were  treated  as  slaves,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  by  all  the  continental  nations  of  Europe,  not  only  at 
home,  but  were  forced  as  such  upon  the  colonies ;  I  showed  that  there 
was  no  law  declaring  them  to  be  slaves,  but  they  were  treated  as 
such  by  the  open  and  common  consent  of  mankind;  not  merely 
by  the  tacit  consent  of  the  people  of  England,  thus  giving  origin  to 
the  common  law,  but  by  the  consent  of  mankind.  I  showed 
that  negroes  existed  in  England,  and  were  bought  and  sold  in  the 
market. 

If  Senators  will  look  at  a  number  of  the  Tatler,  for  the  year  1702 
I  think  it  is,  they  will  find  a  complaint  of  the  negro  Pompey,  ad- 
dressed to  Steele,  who  wrote  the  article,  in  which  Pompey  complains 
that  his  silver  collar  is  not  as  pretty  a  one  as  his  mistress  gives  her 
dog.  The  negro  slaves  were  not  only  held  and  sold  in  the  English 
marts,  but  they  had  collars  around  their  necks  and  were  treated  as 
animals,  and  complaint  made  that  they  were  not  treated  as  well  as 
dogs.  If  you  will  look  to  the  London  Advertiser  of  the  year  1751, 
you  will  find  the  advertisement  of  a  goldsmith's  apprentice,  recom- 
mending himself  to  the  nobility  of  London  as  being  exceedingly  expert 
in  making  collars  for  dogs  and  blacks.  They  were  unknown  in  any 
other  capacity  than  that  of  menial  servants,  subject  to  the  wills  of 
their  masters.  According  to  the  admission  in  the  Sommersett  case 
itself,  there  were  then  fourteen  to  seventeen  thousand  slaves  in  Eng- 
land, bought  and  sold  at  the  Exchange.  They  are  treated  in  English 

*  [From  a  speech  delivered  in  the  Senate  Chamber  of  the  United  States,  March  9,  I860.] 


NEGROES   AS  PROPERTY.  157 

Acts  of  Parliament  as  merchandise  in  so  many  words.  They  were 
treated  by  Sir  Philip  York,  according  to  the  gentleman's  own  authority, 
as  merchandise,  as  chattels,  many  years  before  Lord  Mansfield  made 
his  decision ;  and  then,  when  you  take  up  Lord  Mansfield's  decision, 
what  is  it  ?  What  is  the  distinction  there  made  ?  Just  the  distinction 
that  the  fanatics  of  the  North  are  now  making  in  favor  of  the  blacks 
against  the  whites.  Lord  Mansfield  said  that  although  slavery  was 
known  to  and  established  by  the  common  law  of  England,  it  was  only 
white  slavery  that  was  so  known ;  and  because  in  those  ancient  times, 
beyond  which  the  memory  of  man  runneth  not,  there  existed  no  blacks 
who  could  be  slaves,  he  held  that  by  the  common  laAv  of  England 
African  negroes  were  not  slaves,  although  white  Saxons  were.  I 
defy  any  man  to  extract  anything  else  from  that  decision  than  just 
what  I  have  stated.  It  was  admitted  by  the  counsel  on  both  sides, 
admitted  by  the  judge  himself  in  delivering  his  decision,  that  the 
white  Saxon  was  a  slave  by  the  common  law  of  England,  and  it  was 
held  that  the  African  savage,  brought  from  remote  countries  into 
England,  was  not  a  slave,  because  he  had  not  been  known  to  the 
common  law  as  a  slave. 

It  was  because  of  this  decision,  which  was  merely  yielded  up  to  the 
spirit  of  fanaticism,  then  as  rampant  in  England  as  it  is  now  in  our 
Northern  and  Eastern  States — it  was  in  relation  to  this  decision  that 
Lord  Stowell  spoke  of  Lord  Mansfield's  having  delivered  a  stump 
speech,  or  something  equivalent  to  that,  instead  of  a  decision  in  the 
Sommersett  case.  In  the  case  of  the  slave  Grace  he  declared  that 
negroes  Avere  slaves  in  the  colonies,  not  by  virtue  of  statute,  but  by 
use  and  custom,  which  are  the  sole  origin  of  the  common  law ;  and 
whether  you  choose  to  speak  of  the  technical  common  law  as  it  pre- 
vails in  England,  or  of  that  enlarged  definition  of  common  law  which 
considers  it  as  the  rules  based  on  reason  and  justice,  and  growing  into 
the  authority  of  law  by  the  common  use  of  mankind — whether  you 
speak  of  it  in  the  one  light  or  the  other,  certainly  you  can  find  no 
period  on  this  continent  when  the  negro  was  not  a  slave,  and  you  can 
find  no  statute  making  him  so.  They  never  became  so  by  statute  law. 
How  did  they  ever  become  so  at  all  ?  There  was  no  statute  law  in 
these  colonies  reducing  them  to  slavery. 

I  passed  a  word  the  other  day  with  the  Senator  from  Massachusetts 
(Mr.  Wilson),  .  .  .  as  to  the  ground  upon  which  the  Indians  became 
slaves  to  the  Puritan  fathers.  Talk  to  me  of  the  absence  of  com- 
mon law  on  this  subject ;  the  common  law  which  acknowledged  your 
equals — the  white  Saxon  race — to  be  slaves  to  the  Norman  lords,  sub- 
ject to  barter,  subject  to  purchase  and  sale,  unable  to  transmit  their 
inheritance  to  their  children,  in  every  sense  of  the  word  slaves,  just  as 


158  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

the  modern  negro  is  a  slave  in  the  Southern  States,  though,  because 
negroes  had  not  yet  been  introduced  into  England,  Lord  Mansfield 
had  the  judicial  hardihood  to  hold  that  the  white  Saxon  was  a  slave 
by  the  common  law,  and  that  the  African  savage  was  not.  He  was 
rebuked  by  Lord  Stowell  for  it  in  a  judgment  which  is  a  model  of 
judicial  clearness  and  perspicacity.  That  was  not  the  only  case.  Did 
not  the  English  Court  of  King's  Bench  give  a  judgment  in  favor  of 
the  Spanish  owner  of  slaves  which  had  been  taken  by  an  English 
ship  on  the  high  seas?  On  what  ground?  If  negroes  were  not 
slaves  except  by  virtue  of  municipal  law,  which  is  the  modern  heresy, 
if  they  were  not  slaves  outside  of  the  limits  of  the  place  in  which 
the  law  bound  them  down  as  slaves,  on  what  principle  was  it  that 
the  English  Court  of  King's  Bench  gave  a  decree  for  the  pavment 
of  the  Spanish  owner  of  the  slaves  taken  and  seized  by  an  English 
frigate  ? 

Mr.  President,  it  is  too  late  for  us  to  continue  discussions  of  this 
kind.  They  are,  after  all,  mere  legal  curiosities — mere  antiquarian 
researches.  Enough  for  us  to  know  that  that  which  we  claim  as  prop- 
erty is  recognized  as  such  by  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States ; 
that  it  has  the  sanction  of  the  fathers ;  that  it  lies  at  the  foundation 
of  the  compact  by  which  we  formed  a  common  government ;  and 
that,  without  the  fullest  recognition  and  protection  of  that  prop- 
erty, this  Government  never  could  have  originated.  It  is  not  now,  in 
the  year  1860,  that  we  are  to  be  driven  back  to  an  examination  of 
the  origin  from  which  our  rights  are  derived,  or  the  true  basis  upon 
which  they  rest.  We  treat  these  questions  as  no  longer  open.  We 
treat  our  rights  as  conceded  in  this  Government ;  and,  treating 
these  rights  as  conceded,  we  announce,  we  have  announced,  we  con- 
tinue to  announce,  that  the  Union  under  which  we  live  is  valuable  to 
us  only  so  long  as  it  is  governed  by  the  Constitution  to  which  we 
consented  ;  that  if  you  change  that  Constitution,  you  subvert  that 
Union.  In  that  sense,  and  in  that  alone,  have  you  a  right  to  speak  of 
the  people  of  the  South  as  disunionists ;  and  in  that  sense  you  may 
count  them  all  as  disunionists,  for  I  know  not  a  man  at  the  South  who 
is  not  willing  to  give  up  this  Union  rather  than  give  up  the  Constitu- 
tion, which  is  the  basis  upon  which  it  was  formed.  We  fight  to  pre- 
serve the  Constitution,  and,  in  so  fighting,  fight  to  preserve  the  Union. 
We  consider  those  the  true  disunionists  who  lay  an  unhallowed  hand 
on  the  ark  of  the  covenant,  and  try  to  desecrate  it  to  our  loss  and  dis- 
honor. Respect  it,  keep  your  unholy  hands  off  it,  leave  it  as  it  was 
left  by  the  fathers,  and  you  have  brethren  ready,  shoulder  to  shoulder 
and  side  by  side  with  you,  to  fight  in  its  support.  Desecrate  it,  pollute 
it,  destroy  our  rights  under  it,  invade  the  sanctuary  with  your  modern 


NEGROES  AS  PROPERTY.  159 

ideas  in  relation  to  the  free  rights  of  man,  to  the  equality  of  races,  to 
amalgamation,  to  polygamy,  and  all  the  isms  that  unfortunately  pre- 
vail amongst  certain  classes  at  the  North — prevail  with  these  ideas, 
break  down  the  Constitution,  make  your  ideas  the  governing  principle 
by  which  this  country  is  to  be  administered,  and  I  say  to  you,  and 
every  Southern  man  that  I  know  says,  that  if  the  Constitution  perish, 
perish  the  Union  with  it. 


THE  CONFEDEKATE   SEAL.* 

BY   THOMAS   J.    SEMMES. 

[THOMAS  JENKINS  SEMMES  was  born  at  Georgetown,  D.  C.,  December  16,  1824.  He 
was  graduated,  first  at  Georgetown  College  with  the  degree  of  A.  B. ,  then  at  the  Harvard 
Law  School  with  the  degree  of  LL.B.  He  practised  law  in  Washington  City  about  five 
years  before  removing  to  New  Orleans  to  engage  in  the  same  profession.  He  has  held 
many  political  offices  in  Louisiana,  and  represented  that  State,  with  General  Sparrow,  in 
the  Confederate  Senate.  From  1873  to  1879  he  occupied  the  chair  of  Civil  Law  in  the 
University  of  Louisiana.  In  1886  he  was  elected,  for  the  ensuing  year.  President  of  the 
American  Bar  Association.  A  writer  in  Jewell's  Crescent  City  says:  "In  the  subtle 
game  of  law,  Mr.  Semmes  is  as  adroit  as  a  practical  general  in  the  field.  When  he  gets 
into  his  subject  and  is  warmed  with  it,  he  utters  words  of  fire  that  carry  the  listener 
captive  along  with  him.  He  is  renowned  for  his  ability  to  sway  courts  by  a  logic  almost 
irresistible,  and  juries  by  a  fascinating  eloquence.  He  is  called  by  some  of  our  lawyers 
'  The  Incarnation  of  Logic.'  "] 

MR.  PRESIDENT:  I  am  instructed  by  the  Committee  to  move  to 
strike  out  the  words  duce  vincemus  in  the  motto  and  insert  in  lieu 
thereof  the  words  vindice  majores  cemulamur — "  Under  the  guidance 
and  protection  of  God  we  endeavor  to  equal,  and  even  to  excel,  our 
ancestors."  Before  discussing  the  proposed  change  in  the  motto, 
I  will  submit  to  the  Senate  a  few  remarks  as  to  the  device  on  the  seal. 

The  Committee  have  been  greatly  exercised  on  this  subject,  and 
it  has  been  extremely  difficult  to  come  to  any  satisfactory  conclusion. 
This  is  a  difficulty,  however,  incident  to  the  subject,  and  all  that  we 
have  to  do  is  to  avoid  what  Yisconti  calls  "  an  absurdity  in  bronze." 

The  equestrian  statue  of  Washington  has  been  selected  in  deference 
to  the  current  of  popular  sentiment.  The  equestrian  figure  impressed 
on  our  seal  will  be  regarded  by  those  skilled  in  glyptics  as  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  indicative  of  our  origin.  It  is  a  most  remarkable  fact, 
that  an  equestrian  figure  constituted  the  seal  of  Great  Britain  from 
the  time  of  Edward  the  Confessor  down  to  the  reign  of  George  III., 
except  during  the  short  interval  of  the  protectorate  of  Cromwell, 
when  the  trial  of  the  king  was  substituted  for  the  man  on  horseback. 
Even  Cromwell  retained  the  equestrian  figure  on  the  seal  of  Scotland, 
but  he  characteristically  mounted  himself  on  the  horse.  In  the  reign  of 

*  [Speech  delivered  in  the  Confederate  Senate,  April  27, 1864,  on  the  orators  motion 
to  strike  out  the  words  "  seal  of,"  and  substitute  for  the  words  "  Deo  duce  vincemus" 
the  legend  "  Deo  vindice  majores  aemulamur. "] 


THE  CONFEDERATE  SEAL.  161 

William  and  Mary,  the  seal  bore  the  impress  of  the  king  and  queen 
both  mounted  on  horseback. 

Washington  has  been  selected  as  the  emblem  for  our  shield,  as  a 
type  of  our  ancestors — in  his  character  of  princeps  majorum.  In 
addition  to  this,  the  equestrian  figure  is  consecrated  in  the  hearts  of 
our  people  by  the  local  circumstance  that,  on  the  gloomy  and  stormy 
22d  of  February,  1862,  our  Permanent  Government  was  set  in  motion 
by  the  inauguration  of  President  Davis  under  the  shadow  of  the  statue 
of  Washington. 

The  Committee  are  dissatisfied  with  the  motto  on  the  seal  as 
proposed  by  the  House  resolution.  The  motto  proposed  is  as  follows : 
"  Deo  Duce  Yincemus  " — "  Under  the  leadership  of  God  we  will 
conquer." 

The  word  duce  is  too  pagan  in  its  signification,  and  is  degrad- 
ing to  God  because  it  reduces  him  to  the  leader  of  an  army ;  for 
scarcely  does  the  word  duce  escape  the  lips  before  the  imagination 
suggests  exercitus,  an  army  for  a  leader  to  command.  It  degrades 
the  Christian  God  to  the  level  of  pagan  gods,  goddesses,  and  heroes, 
as  is  manifest  from  the  following  quotation :  "  Nil  desperandurn 
Teucro  duce."  This  word  duce  is  particularly  objectionable  because 
of  its  connection  with  the  word  mncemus — "  we  will  conquer."  This 
connection  makes  God  the  leader  of  a  physical  army,  by  means  of 
which  we  will  conquer,  not  must  conquer.  If  God  be  our  leader,  we 
must  conquer,  or  he  would  not  be  the  God  of  Abraham,  and  of  Isaac, 
and  of  Jacob,  nor  the  God  of  the  Christian.  This  very  doubt  implied 
in  the  word  mncemus  so  qualifies  the  omnipotence  of  the  God  who 
is  to  be  our  "  leader,"  that  it  imparts  a  degrading  signification  to  the 
word  duce  in  its  relation  to  the  attributes  of  the  Deity. 

The  word  mncemus  is  equally  objectionable,  because  it  implies 
that  the  war  is  to  be  our  normal  state ;  besides,  it  is  in  the  future 
tense — "  we  will  conquer."  The  future  is  always  uncertain,  and  there- 
fore it  implies  doubt.  What  becomes  of  our  motto  when  we  shall 
have  conquered  ?  The  future  becomes  an  accomplished  fact,  and  our 
motto  thus  loses  its  significance.  In  addition  to  this,  there  are  only 
two  languages  in  which  the  words  "  will "  and  "  shall "  are  to  be  found 
— the  English  and  the  German — and  in  those  they  are  used  to  qualify 
a  positive  condition  of  the  mind  and  render  it  uncertain ;  they  are 
repugnant  to  repose,  quiet,  absolute  and  positive  existence. 

As  to  the  motto  proposed  by  us,  we  concur  with  the  House  in 
accepting  the  word  Deo — God.  We  do  so  in  conformity  to  the 
expressed  wishes  of  the  framers  of  our  Constitution,  and  the  senti- 
ments of  the  people  and  of  the  army. 

The  preamble  of  the  Provisional  Constitution  declares  that  "  We, 
11 


162  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

the  deputies  of  the  sovereign  and  independent  States  of  South  Caro- 
lina," etc.,  "invoking  the  favor  and  guidance  of  Almighty  God,  do 
ordain,"  etc.  In  this  respect  both  our  Constitutions  have  deviated  in 
the  most  emphatic  manner  from  the  spirit  that  presided  over  the 
construction  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  which  is  silent 
on  the  subject  of  the  Deity. 

Having  discarded  the  word  duce  the  committee  endeavored  to 
select  in  lieu  of  it  a  word  more  in  consonance  with  the  attributes  of 
the  Deity,  and  therefore  more  imposing  and  significant.  They  think 
success  has  crowned  their  efforts  in  the  selection  of  the  word  vindex 
which  signifies  an  asserter,  a  defender,  protector,  deliverer,  liberator, 
a  mediator,  and  a  ruler  or  guardian,  as  may  be  seen  from  the  follow- 
ing examples:  First,  a  defender:  "Habet  sane  populus  tabellam 
quasi  vindicem  libertatis." — Livy.  (The  people  hold  a  bond,  the 
defender,  as  it  were,  of  their  liberty.)  Second,  a  protector :  "  Vin- 
dicem periculi  Curium  res  suppeditat." — Livy.  (The  circumstances 
suggest  or  afford  Curius  as  a  protector  against  danger.)  Third,  a 
mediator :  "  Nee  Deus  intersit  nisi  dignus  vindice  nodus  inciderit."- 
Horace,  Ars  Poetica.  (Let  not  God  intervene,  unless  the  catastrophe 
be  worthy  of  such  a  mediator  or  interposer.*)  Fourth,  ruler  or 
guardian:  "Yindicem  eum  regni  reliquit." — Justin's  History.  (He 
left  him  ruler  or  guardian  of  the  kingdom.) 

Vindex  also  means  an  avenger  or  punisher.  First,  "  Furiae  vin- 
dices  facinorum." — Cicero.  (The  Furies  the  avengers  of  crime.) 
Second,  "  Me  vindicem  conjurationis  oderunt." — Cicero.  (They  hate 
me,  the  punisher  of  their  conspiracy.) 

No  word  appeared  grander,  more  expressive  or  significant  than 
this.  Under  God  as  the  asserter  of  our  rights,  the  defender  of  our 
liberties,  our  protector  against  danger,  our  mediator,  our  ruler  and 
guardian,  and  as  the  avenger  of  our  wrongs  and  the  punisher  of  our 
crimes,  we  endeavor  to  equal  or  even  excel  our  ancestors.  What  word 
can  be  suggested  of  more  power,  and  so  replete  with  sentiments  and 
thoughts  consonant  with  our  idea  of  the  omnipotence  and  justice  of 
God? 

At  this  point  the  Committee  hesitated  whether  it  were  necessary 
to  add  anything  further  to  the  motto  "  Deo  vindice."  These  words 
alone  were  sufficient  and  impressive,  and  in  the  spirit  of  the  lapidary 
style  of  composition  were  elliptical  and  left  much  to  the  play  of  the 
imagination.  ^Reflection,  however,  induced  us  to  add  the  words 
majores  cemulamur,  because  without  them  there  would  be  nothing  in 
the  motto  referring  to  the  equestrian  figure  of  Washington.  It  was 
thought  best  to  insert  something  elucidative  or  adoptive  of  the  idea 
intended  to  be  conveyed  by  that  figure.  Having  determined  on  this 


THE  CONFEDERATE  SEAL.  163 

point,  the  Committee  submit  to  the  judgment  of  the  Senate  the  words 
majores  cemulamur,  as  best  adapted  to  express  the  ideas  of  "  our  ances- 
tors." Patres  was  first  suggested,  but  abandoned  because  majores 
signifies  ancestors  absolutely,  and  is  also  more  suggestive  than  patres. 
The  latter  is  a  term  applied  to  our  immediate  progenitors  who  may 
be  alive,  whereas  majores  conveys  the  idea  of  a  more  remote  genera- 
tion that  has  passed  away. 

This  distinction  is  well  marked  in  the  following  quotation  from 
Cicero  against  Caecilius :  "  Patres,  majoresque  nostri."  (Our  fathers 
and  forefathers.) 

That  being  disposed  of,  the  question  arose  as  to  the  proper  signifi- 
cation of  the  word  cemulamur.  Honorable  emulation  is  the  primary 
signification  of  the  word ;  in  its  secondary  sense,  it  is  true,  it  includes 
the  idea  of  improper  rivalry,  or  jealousy.  But  it  is  used  in  its  primary 
and  honorable  sense  by  the  most  approved  authors,  as  may  be  seen 
from  the  following  examples :  First,  "  Quoniam  semulari  non  licet 
nunc  invides." — Plautus,  The  Boastful  Soldier.  (Since  you  cannot 
equal,  you  now  envy  him.)  Second,  "  Omnes  ejus  instituta  laudare 
facilius  possunt  quam  aemulari." — Cicero.  (It  is  easier  to  praise  than 
to  equal  his  precepts.)  Third,  "  Pindarum  quisquis  studet  aemulari," 
etc. — Horace,  Odes.  (Whoever  endeavors  to  equal  Pindarus  is  sure 
to  fall.)  Fourth,  "  Virtutes  majorum  semulari." — Tacitus,  Life  of 
Agricola.  (To  equal,  to  come  up  to  the  virtues  of  our  ancestors.) 
This  last  example  is  an  exact  application  of  the  word  in  the  manner 
proposed  by  the  Committee. 

The  secondary  and  improper  sense  of  the  word  cemulari  is  excluded 
in  the  proposed  motto  by  the  relation  it  bears  to  "  Deo  vindice." 
This  relation  excludes  the  ideas  of  envy  or  jealousy,  because  God,  as 
the  asserter  of  what  is  right,  justifies  the  emulation,  and  as  a  punisher 
of  what  is  wrong,  checks  the  excess,  in  case  the  emulation  runs  into 
improper  envy  or  jealousy.  In  adopting  the  equestrian  figure  of 
Washington,  the  Committee  desire  distinctly  to  disavow  any  recog- 
nition of  the  embodiment  of  the  idea  of  the  "  Cavalier."  We  have  no 
admiration  for  the  character  of  the  "  Cavalier  "  of  1640,  anymore  than 
for  that  of  his  opponent  the  Puritan.  We  turn  with  disgust  from 
the  violent  and  licentious  Cavalier,  and  we  abhor  the  acerb,  morose, 
and  fanatic  Puritan  of  whom  Oliver  Cromwell  was  the  type.  In 
speaking  of  Cromwell  and  his  character,  G'uizot  says  "  that  he  pos- 
sessed the  faculty  of  lying  at  need  with  an  inexhaustible  and  unhesi- 
tating hardihood,  which  struck  even  his  enemies  with  surprise  and 
embarrassment."  This  characteristic  seems  to  have  been  transmitted 
to  the  descendants  of  the  Pilgrims  who  settled  in  Massachusetts  Bay 
to  enjoy  the  liberty  of  persecution.  If  the  Cavalier  is  to  carry  us  back 


164  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

to  days  earlier  than  the  American  Revolution,  I  prefer  to  be  trans- 
ported in  imagination  to  the  field  of  Runnymede,  when  the  Barons 
extorted  Magna  Charta  from  the  unwilling  John.  But  I  discard  all 
reference  to  the  Cavalier  of  old,  because  it  implies  a  division  of  society 
into  two  orders,  an  idea  inconsistent  with  Confederate  institutions. 

The  Committee  have  discharged  their  duty  and  submit  the  result 
to  the  consideration  of  the  Senate. 

It  is  true  they  have  labored  more  than  a  year,  and  critics  may  say, 
"  Parturiunt  montes,  nascitur  ridiculus  mus." 

^Esthetical  critics,  who  claim  to  be  versed  in  glyptics,  have,  how- 
ever, failed  to  suggest  anything  better.  If  the  proposition  be  not 
satisfactory  to  the  Senate,  it  is  hoped  the  matter  will  be  intrusted  to 
other  and  more  learned  hands. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  AND  ROBERT  E.  LEE.* 

BY    BENJAMIN    M.    PALMER. 

[BENJAMIN  MORGAN  PALMER  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  January  25,  1818.  In 
1838,  after  he  was  graduated  from  the  University  of  Georgia,  he  entered  upon  the  study 
of  Divinity  in  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Columbia,  S.  C.  In  1841  he  was  licensed  by 
the  Presbytery  of  Charleston  to  preach  the  Gospel.  Having  married  in  the  same  year, 
and  being  soon  after  ordained,  he  took  charge  of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  in 
Savannah,  Ga.  In  1842  he  was  transferred  to  a  pastoral  charge  at  Columbia,  S.  C.,  and 
remained  with  this  church  for  fourteen  years.  During  the  most  of  this  period  he  filled 
the  chair  of  Church  History  and  Government  in  the  Theological  School  in  the  same  city. 
In  1852  Oglethorpe  University  conferred  upon  him  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity; 
and  in  1870  Westminster  (Mo.)  College  followed  with  that  of  LL.D.  It  was  in  1856 
that  he  began  his  life-work  with  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  of  New  Orleans,  where 
he  has  won  for  himself  the  love  and  reverence  of  every  citizen,  irrespective  of  creed, 
race,  or  grade.  He  wrote  TJie  Life  of  James  Henley  Thornwell  (1875).  Mr.  John  Dimitry 
says:  "Through  the  essential  goodness  of  Dr.  Palmer  human  sin  has  often  been  lifted 
into  hope ;  through  his  wonderful  words  human  rebellion  has  as  often  been  shamed  into 
conviction.  In  the  pulpit  he  appears  like  one  of  the  old  prophets,  with  a  message  to 
deliver.  It  is  difficult,  indeed,  to  resist  the  magnetism  of  his  discourse,  so  stately  in 
speech,  so  fervid  in  imagination,  so  vivid  in  pictures,  so  scholarly  in  illustrations,  so 
spontaneous  in  gesture,  and  so  supreme  in  faith.  To  possess  such  an  orator  is  a  privi- 
lege for  the  generation  which  he  honors,  and  for  the  city  in  which  his  voice  has  been  so 
long  heard  in  behalf  of  every  good  cause."] 

WHAT  is  that  combination  of  influences,  partly  physical,  partly 
intellectual,  but  somewhat  more  moral,  which  should  make  a  particu- 
lar country  productive  of  men  great  over  all  others  on  earth,  and  to 
all  ages  of  time  ?  Ancient  Greece,  with  her  indented  coast,  inviting 
to  maritime  adventures,  from  her  earliest  period  was  the  mother  of 
heroes  in  war,  of  poets  in  song,  of  sculptors  and  artists,  and  stands  up 
after  the  lapse  of  centuries  the  educator  of  mankind,  living  in  the 
grandeur  of  her  works  and  in  the  immortal  productions  of  minds 
which  modern  civilization,  writh  all  its  cultivation  and  refinement  and 
science,  never  surpassed  and  scarcely  equalled.  And  why,  in  the 
three  hundred  years  of  American  history,  it  should  be  given  to  the 
Old  Dominion  to  be  the  grandmother,  not  only  of  States,  but  of 
the  men  by  whom  States  and  empires  are  formed,  it  might  be  curious, 
were  it  possible  for  us,  to  inquire.  Unquestionably,  Mr.  President, 
there  is  in  this  problem  the  element  of  race ;  for  he  is  blind  to  all  the 
truths  of  history,  to  all  the  revelations  of  the  past,  who  does  not 

*  [From  an  address  delivered  at  a  meeting  of  the  citizens  of  New  Orleans,  October 
15, 1870,  the  funeral  day  of  General  Robert  E.  Lee.] 


106  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

recognize  a  select  race  as  we  recognize  a  select  individual  of  a  race,  to 
make  all  history.  But  pretermitting  all  speculation  of  that  sort,  when 
Virginia  unfolds  the  scroll  of  her  immortal  sons — not  because  illustri- 
ous men  did  not  precede  him  gathering  in  constellations  and  clusters, 
but  because  the  name  shines  out  through  those  constellations  and 
clusters  in  all  its  peerless  grandeur — we  read  first  the  name  of  George 
Washington.  And  then,  Mr.  President,  after  the  interval  of  three- 
quarters  of  a  century,  when  your  jealous  eye  has  ranged  down  the 
record  and  traced  the  names  that  history  will  never  let  die,  you  come 
to  the  name — the  only  name  in  all  the  annals  of  history  that  can  be 
named  in  the  perilous  connection — of  Robert  E.  Lee,  the  second  Wash- 
ington. Well  may  old  Virginia  be  proud  of  her  twin  sons !  born 
almost  a  century  apart,  but  shining  like  those  binary  stars  which  open 
their  glory  and  shed  their  splendor  on  the  darkness  of  the  world. 

Sir,  it  is  not  an  artifice  of  rhetoric  which  suggests  this  parallel 
between  two  great  names  in  American  history ;  for  the  suggestion 
springs  spontaneously  to  every  mind,  and  men  scarcely  speak  of  Lee 
without  thinking  of  a  mysterious  connection  that  binds  the  two 
together.  They  were  alike  in  the  presage  of  their  early  history — the 
history  of  their  boyhood.  Both  earnest,  grave,  studious ;  both  alike 
in  that  peculiar  purity  which  belongs  only  to  a  noble  boy,  and  which 
makes  him  a  brave  and  noble  man,  filling  the  page  of  a  history  spot- 
less until  closed  in  death ;  alike  in  that  commanding  presence  which 
seems  to  be  the  signature  of  Heaven,  sometimes  placed  on  a  great 
soul  when  to  that  soul  is  given  a  fit  dwelling-place;  alike  in  that 
noble  carriage  and  commanding  dignity,  exercising  a  mesmeric  influ- 
ence and  a  hidden  power  which  could  not  be  repressed  upon  all  who 
came  within  its  charm;  alike  in  the  remarkable  combination  and 
symmetry  of  their  intellectual  attributes,  all  brought  up  to  the  same 
equal  level,  no  faculty  of  the  mind  overlapping  any  other — all  so  equal, 
so  well  developed,  the  judgment,  the  reason,  the  memory,  the  fancy, 
that  you  are  almost  disposed  to  deny  them  greatness,  because  no 
single  attribute  of  the  mind  was  projected  upon  itself,  just  as  objects 
appear  sometimes  smaller  to  the  eye  from  the  exact  symmetry  and 
beauty  of  their  proportions ;  alike,  above  all,  in  that  soul-greatness, 
that  Christian  virtue  to  which  so  beautiful  a  tribute  has  been  paid  by 
my  friend,*  whose  high  privilege  it  was  to  be  a  compeer  and  comrade 
with  the  immortal  dead,  although  in  another  department  and  sphere ; 
and  yet,  Mr.  President,  in  their  external  fortune  so  strangely  dis- 
similar— the  one  the  representative  and  the  agent  of  a  stupendous 
revolution,  which  it  pleased  Heaven  to  bless,  and  thereby  give  birth 
to  one  of  the  mightiest  nations  on  the  globe ;  the  other  the  representa- 
*[Hon.  Thomas  J.  Serames,  who  was  the  first  speaker  on  the  occasion.] 


GEORGE   WASHINGTON  AND  ROBERT  E.   LEE.  167 

tive  and  agent  of  a  similar  revolution,  upon  which  it  pleased  high 
Heaven  to  throw  the  darkness  of  its  frown  ;  so  that,  bearing  upon  his 
generous  heart  the  weight  of  this  crushed  cause,  he  was  at  length 
overwhelmed ;  and  the  nation,  whom  he  led  in  battle,  gathers  with 
spontaneity  of  grief  over  all  this  land,  which  is  ploughed  with  graves 
and  reddened  with  blood,  and  the  tears  of  a  widowed  nation  in  her 
bereavement  are  shed  over  his  honored  grave. 


THE  END   OF  SECTIONALISM.* 

BY    E.    JOHN    ELLIS. 

[EZEKIEL  JOHN  ELLIS  was  born  in  Covington,  La.,  October  15,  1841.  He  served  in 
the  Confederate  array,  first  as  a  private,  $ien  as  a  captain.  In  1866  he  was  admitted  to 
the  New  Orleans  bar.  In  1874  he  was  elected  to  Congress,  and  secured  reelection  in 
1876,  1878,  1880,  and  1882.  He  died  in  Washington,  D.  C.,  April  19,  1889.  The  late 
James  G.  Elaine  once  said  :  "Ellis,  of  Louisiana,  is  one  of  the  most  eloquent  and 
earnest  debaters  I  have  ever  heard."] 

MOKE  than  sixty  years  ago,  the  dread  gulf  of  sectionalism  yawned 
by  the  very  altar  of  our  country.  No  matter,  now,  whose  was  the 
fault.  It  appeared,  it  grew,  it  widened.  It  brought  hatreds,  and 
strifes,  and  threats,  and  bitterness,  and  drew  away  the  hearts  of 
Americans  from  the  love  and  the  trust  of  the  fathers.  In  vain  did 
heroes  bleed,  in  vain  did  sages  warn.  Finally,  there  came  war ;  and 
over  and  into  this  gulf,  Americans  fought,  and  the  blood  of  Ameri- 
cans, shed  by  American  hands,  was  poured.  A  million  of  noble  lives 
were  offered  up.  Women  wept  their  husbands,  and  children  mourned 
their  fathers,  and  yet  the  gulf  would  not  close.  And  since  the  strife 
and  the  bloodshed,  the  gulf  has  remained  until  now.  To-day,  thank 
God,  it  is  closed ! 

The  warm  outburst  of  sympathy  and  love  that  broke  from  the 
great  heart  of  the  South  for  the  stricken  President,  who  was  their 
enemy  in  war,  and  whose  political  course  and  theories  in  peace  were 
with  those  who  seemed  against  the  prejudices  and  sympathies  of  the 
South,  has  touched  the  generous  heart  of  the  mighty  North  as  it  has 
not  been  touched  before.  In  the  gloom  of  the  common  grief,  the  sec- 
tions see  each  other  as  they  have  not  seen  before ;  and  over  the  suffer- 
ing couch,  and  around  the  tear-moistened  grave  of  the  martyred  Pres- 
ident, they  have  met  and  realized,  with  the  old  love  of  our  fathers 
warm  in  their  sad  hearts,  that  they  are  one — one  in  love,  in  hope,  in 
sympathy,  and  destiny  forever.  And  so  the  gulf  of  sectionalism  closes 
upon  the  sacred  form  of  the  dead  President.  God  grant  that  the  sacri- 
fice may  prove  enough !  God  of  our  fathers,  grant  that  the  Union, 
thus  recemented,  may  grow  stronger  and  stronger  as  the  years  roll  on, 
and  live,  a  quickening  and  animating  presence,  in  the  heart  of  every 
American.  And  if  this  shall  be  so,  then  will  James  A.  Garfield's 
death  have  accomplished  what  his  life  was  powerless  to  achieve, 
though  he  wielded  the  soldier's  sword  and  wrote  the  statesman's  law. 

*  [From  an  address  delivered,  September  26,  1881,  on  the  occasion  of  the  funeral 
obsequies  in  honor  of  President  James  Abrain  Garfield.] 


DISCOVERY   OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI  VALLEY.* 

BY    RANDALL    L.    GIBSON. 

[RANDALL  LEE  GIBSON  was  born  at  Spring  Hill,  Woodford  County,  Ky.,  September 
10, 1832.  In  1853  he  took  his  A.  B.  degree  from  Yale  College,  and  about  two  years  after 
was  graduated  from  the  Law  Department  of  the  University  of  Louisiana.  He  served  with 
honor  in  the  Confederate  Army  (1861-65),  attaining  the  rank  of  major-general  before  the 
close  of  the  war.  Always  a  sterling  Democrat,  in  1872  he  was  elected  to  Congress  from 
the  First  Congressional  District  of  Louisiana,  but  was  not  allowed  to  take  his  seat.  He 
was  reflected  to  the  position  in  1874,  1876,  1878,  and  1880.  On  the  organization  of 
Tulane  University  he  was  made  President  of  its  Board  of  Administrators.  From  March 
4,  1883,  until  his  death,  which  occurred  December  15,  1892,  he  was  United  States 
Senator  from  Louisiana.] 

MR.  SPEAKER  :  The  Spaniards  discovered  the  Mississippi  River.  In 
1528,  a  century  before  the  French  reached  its  upper  tributaries,  or  the 
English  landed  at  Jamestown,  Cabeza  de  Vaca  passed  near  the  mouth 
of  the  great  river,  but  his  vessel  was  tossed  away  by  the  strong  cur- 
rent, aided  by  a  wind  from  the  east ;  yet  he  and  his  companions  first 
tasted  and  remembered  "  its  sweet  waters."  Another  gallant  Spaniard,. 
Ferdinand  de*  Soto,  who  had  been  the  companion  of  Pizarro  in  the  con- 
quest of  Peru,  with  a  band  of  faithful  followers,  courtiers  and  artisans,, 
priests  and  soldiers,  like  Cortez,  bidding  adieu  to  his  ships,  penetrated 
the  southern  forests,  and  after  three  years  of  adventurous  wanderings, 
full  of  hard  struggles  and  bitter  disappointments,  in  the  spring  of  the 
year  1541  first  planted  the  banners  of  Spain  and  of  the  Christian  Church 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi  River,  beneath  whose  turbid  waves 
he  found  a  grave  for  himself,  his  ambitions,  and  his  hopes. 

More  than  a  century  after  this — a  century  and  a  half — in  16T3,  the 
meek  and  illustrious  Father  Marquette,  the  brave  chief  Joliet,  and 
Father  Hennepin,  entered  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi.  The  latter 
explored  it  northward  nearly  to  its  headwaters,  and  the  former  navi- 
gated it  with  fearless  intrepidity  as  far  south  as  the  Arkansas. 

But  brilliant  as  these  exploits  were,  they  have  not  obscured  the 
lustre  that  surrounds  the  name  of  La  Salle,  for  it  was  his  happy  fortune 
to  excel  all  his  predecessors  in  the  boldness  and  the  extent  of  his 
wonderful  and  successful  discoveries.  Baffled  by  no  disappointments, 
surmounting  all  obstacles  by  his  own  indomitable  will,  and  supplying 

*  [Speech  delivered  in  the  House  of  Representatives  of  the  United  Stales,  March  7, 
1882.] 


170  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

all  deficiencies  from  the  resources  of  his  own  matchless  genius,  the 
equal  of  Caesar  in  fixedness  of  purpose,  and  not  inferior  to  Columbus 
in  self-reliance,  without  supplies  or  equipments,  attended  by  a  band  of 
compatriots  few  in  number  but  equally  ardent  in  the  bold  and  hazard- 
ous enterprise,  these  heroic  Frenchmen,  coming  into  the  valley  by  way 
of  the  northern  lakes,  embarked  upon  the  great  river,  not  knowing 
whither  they  might  be  borne  by  its  majestic  and  ceaseless  current, 
until  at  length,  having  mastered  the  perils  of  hostile  tribes  and  the  still 
greater  perils  of  the  treacherous  and  relentless  floods,  on  the  sixth  day 
of  April,  1682,  they  were  greeted  by  the  sight  of  the  dancing  white 
caps,  and  they  heard  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  southern  sea. 

With  loyal  and  pious  hearts,  at  the  head  of  the  passes  near  the 
mouth  of  the  river,  in  acknowledgment  of  their  successful  discovery, 
on  the  9th  of  April,  1682,  they  erected  a  cross  and  a  column,  on  which 
were  affixed  the  arms  of  France,  around  which  they  chanted  a  hymn 
that  from  the  seventh  century  was  heard  in  lonely  cloisters,  in  stately 
cathedrals,  and  in  every  land  and  on  every  sea,  from  the  lips  of  the 
zealous  and  holy  missionaries  of  the  Christian  Church  sent  forth  to  the 
remotest  ends  of  the  earth,  inspiring  the  children  of  the  Christian 
faith  with  kindling  fervor  and  the  sacrifice  of  self  in  the  work  of  the 
Divine  Master : 

"  The  banners  of  Heaven's  King  advance, 
The  mystery  of  the  Cross  shine  forth." 

La  Salle  afterward  returned  to  France  to  fit  out  an  expedition  to 
enter  the  Mississippi  Kiver  by  way  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  but  by  mis- 
take entered  Matagorda  Bay  in  Texas  and  took  possession  of  the 
country  in  the  name  of  his  king,  and  thus  Texas  became  properly  a 
part  of  that  vast  empire  that  under  the  name  of  Louisiana  in  a  later 
age  was  added  to  the  dominions  of  the  Eepublic.  Born  in  Rouen, 
France,  it  was  his  destiny  to  have  his  life  terminated,  stricken  down 
by  conspirators  among  his  own  followers,  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  at 
the  age  of  forty-three,  in  the  midst  of  his  greatest  achievements  on  the 
banks  of  the  Trinity,  while  on  his  way  from  Texas  to  Canada,  still  in 
search  of  "  the  fatal  river." 

It  is  proposed  on  the  9th  of  April  to  commemorate  the  two  hun- 
dredth anniversary  of  his  achievements,  to  celebrate  the  memory  of 
La  Salle,  the  discoverer  of  the  Ohio  and  the  Mississippi,  whose  genius 
consecrated  to  king  and  Church,  and  opened  to  settlement  and  civiliza- 
tion, a  territory  that  to-day  embraces  two-thirds  of  our  Republic  and 
over  twenty-five  million  of  our  population.  What  spot  more  appro- 
priate for  such  a  celebration  than  the  head  of  the  passes  near  the 
mouth  of  the  river  where  he  and  his  compatriots  first  raised  the 


DISCOVERY  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI   VALLEY.  171 

emblems  of  their  faith  and  country,  and  left  the  memorials  of  their 
successful  achievements  ?  There  the  celebration  will  be  held.  There 
will  be  reenacted  the  scene  performed  by  the  great  Frenchman  and  his 
followers. 

But  how  changed  the  conditions,  the  circumstances,  and  the  times ! 
It  will  be  a  celebration  by  the  millions  who  inhabit  the  great  valley, 
heirs  of  his  labors,  citizens  of  free  and  enlightened  commonwealths, 
coequal  parts  of  a  mighty  confederacy,  born  one  hundred  years  after 
his  discoveries,  but  already  one  of  the  foremost  nations  of  the  earth  in 
the  magnitude  of  her  dominions,  in  wealth,  power,  and  population ;  in 
the  arts  and  sciences  and  letters ;  in  manners  and  morals  ;  in  all  the 
resources  of  civilization ;  in  the  stability  and  freedom  of  her  institu- 
tions, and  in  the  intelligence,  the  genius,  and  the  affections  of  her 
citizens. 

Orators  fitly  chosen  will  recite  the  virtues  of  the  great  Pioneer — 
how  he  was  fashioned  on  the  model  of  Homer's  heroes,  of  Achillean 
temper. 

"  Irnpiger,  iracundus,  inexorabilis,  acer." 

How  he  breasted  famine,  disease,  and  disappointment,  the  fury  of 
man  and  of  the  elements,  the  southern  heat  and  the  rigors  of  the  frozen 
north ;  how  with  an  enthusiasm  surpassing  that  which  beat  beneath 
the  impenetrable  mail  of  Richard  the  Lion-hearted,  he  ever  pressed 
onward,  over  ocean,  lake,  and  river,  among  cruel  and  savage  foes  in 
the  trackless  wilderness,  to  discover  the  great  West,  and  to  endow 
America  with  the  richest  jewels  in  her  diadem. 


GKACE  IN  WOMAN.* 

BY   BENJAMIN   M.    PALMER. 

BUT,  young  ladies,  .  .  .  you  must  not  only  be  competent  to  meet 
the  engagements  of  the  future,  but  you  must  discharge  them  with  the 
elegance  or  grace  which  is  the  queenly  trait  of  a  high  womanly  career. 
All  the  offices  she  is  called  to  fill  require  her  to  be  adorned  with  this 
beautiful  halo.  She  is  the  chief  element  in  the  refinement  and  culture 
of  a  people,  and  becomes  of  necessity  the  chief  exponent  of  a  true 
civilization.  Her  position  in  the  social  scale  indicates,  as  with  the  pre- 
cision of  an  electrometer,  the  degree  of  sensibility  and  taste  which  has 
been  reached  by  the  community  at  large.  For  this  she  needs  to  be 
clothed  with  grace  as  with  a  robe  of  honor.  She  is  at  once  the  orna- 
ment and  centre  of  the  domestic  circle.  Her  presence  lights  the  fire 
upon  every  hearth-stone ;  and  her  genial  presidency,  like  the  soft 
radiance  of  the  moon,  diffuses  contentment  and  peace  over  the  home. 
The  ungraceful  woman,  who  elbows  her  way  with  a  sort  of  angular 
awkwardness  through  life,  may  be  the  moon  still,  but  the  moon  as  she 
veils  her  face  behind  the  clouds,  shedding  but  a  smothered  light  and 
only  saving  the  world  from  total  darkness. 

The  woman  too  is  the  world's  chief  comforter.  It  is  hers  to  still 
the  sob  of  the  orphan,  and  to  cheer  the  desolate  heart  of  the  widow ; 
hers  to  brush  away  the  falling  tear,  and  to  hold  the  drooping  head ; 
hers  to  wipe  the  death-damp  from  the  brow,  and  with  plaintive  dirge 
to  sing  the  weary  soul  to  rest.  What  refinement  of  feeling  and  grace 
of  action  do  not  these  holy  offices  of  sympathy  and  affection  require  ? 

These  illustrations  will  suffice  to  show  that  I  do  not  employ  the 
term  grace  in  any  technical  and  narrow  sense,  as  equivalent  only  to 
the  mannerism  of  the  fashionable  world.     Rest  assured  there  is  a 
world-wide  difference  between  the  fine  lady  of  fashion  and  the  true- 
hearted  woman  in  the  full  development  of  that  nature  given  her  of 
God ;  and  the  starched  elegance  of  the  one  is  no  more  the  free  dignity 
of  the  other  than  is  galvanized  copper  the  pure  coin  which  has  stood 
the  test  of  the  mint.     The  grace  for  which  I  plead  does  not  reside  in   < 
postures  and  gestures,  to  be  measured  by  lines  and  angles ;  but  it  i&  / 
that  free  carriage  of  body  and  soul  with  which  a  cultivated  woman  ' 

*  [From  an  address  delivered  to  the  first  graduates  of  the  H.  Sophie  Newcomb 
Memorial  College,  of  New  Orleans,  in  College  Chapel,  June  17,  1889.] 


GRACE  IN  WOMAN.  173 

sweeps  on  through  the  commonest  duties  of  life.  It  is  the  queenly 
deportment,  as  conspicuous  amidst  the  embarrassments  of  poverty  as 
amidst  the  blandishments  of  wealth.  For  its  attainment,  a  refined 
sensibility  and  an  improved  taste  are  just  as  essential  as  a  sound 
judgment  and  a  true  heart.  There  must  be  the  quick  discernment  of 
the  beautiful  and  the  true,  a  ready  command  of  the  emotions  inspired 
by  both,  and  the  facility  of  expressing  these  in  appropriate  acts.  The 
best  illustration  of  this  is  furnished  in  the  distinction  drawn  by  that 
acute  metaphysician,  Dr.  Brown,  between  the  artificial  politeness  of 
society  and  the  true  politeness  of  intellectual  and  moral  culture,  when 
he  defines  the  latter  as  nothing  more  than  "  knowledge  of  the  human 
mind  directing  general  benevolence."  "  It  is,"  says  he,  "  the  art  of 
producing  the  greatest  happiness  which,  in  the  mere  external  courte- 
sies of  life,  can  be  produced  by  raising  such  ideas  or  other  feelings  in 
the  minds  of  those  with  whom  we  are  conversant  as  will  afford  the 
most  pleasure,  and  averting,  as  much  as  possible,  every  idea  which  may 
lead  to  pain.  It  implies,  therefore,  when  perfect,  a  fine  knowledge  of 
the  natural  series  of  thoughts,  so  as  to  distinguish  not  merely  the 
thought  which  will  be  the  immediate  or  near  effect  of  what  is  said  or 
done,  but  those  which  will  arise  still  more  remotely ;  and  he  is  the 
most  successful  in  this  art  of  giving  happiness  who  sees  the  future  at 
the  furthest  distance."  Dr.  Brown  proceeds  to  illustrate  this  distinc- 
tion from  the  lower  orders  of  society,  the  most  tender  of  whom  have, 
as  he  expresses  it,  "  little  foresight  of  the  mere  pains  of  thought,"  and 
"  whose  benevolence,  so  far  from  fulfilling  its  real  wishes,  becomes 
itself  the  most  cruel  of  tortures."* 

To  the  cultivation  of  grace  in  this  enlarged  sense  of  the  term 
politeness,  all  the  branches  of  your  education  have  here  been  directed ; 
not  only  those  heavier  studies  which  strengthen  the  reason  and  inform 
the  mind,  but  those  lighter  accomplishments  intended  to  refine  the 
taste  and  to  polish  the  enamel  of  character  itself.  A  cold  utilitarian- 
ism might  ask,  Why  this  expenditure  of  time  and  money  in  acquiring 
mere  accomplishments  which  can  seldom  form  the  staple  of  duty,  for 
the  easel  and  the  note-book  will  soon  be  pushed  aside  by  the  ruder 
employments  of  life  ?  It  is  sufficient  to  reply,  that  these  accomplish- 
ments, if  they  have  not  displaced  more  important  studies,  form  no 
unimportant  part  of  woman's  education.  You  have  been  taught  music 
and  drawing  not  merely  that  you  may  sing,  and  paint,  but  that  these 
polished  studies  may  impart  their  sweet  grace  to  your  character,  and 
that  you  may  be  through  life  more  elegant  women,  by  the  delicacy  of 
thought  and  feeling  which  they  are  suited  to  inspire. 

*  Philosophy  of  the  Human  Mind,  Vol.  1,  pp.  39,  40. 


CHIYALKY.* 

BY    EMMANUEL   DE    LA  MOKINIERE. 

[EMMANUEL  DE  LA  MORINIERE  was  born  in  Basse-Terre,  Guadeloupe,  April  17,  1856. 
About  1867  his  family  settled  in  New  Orleans,  and  he  was  placed  in  the  Jesuits'  College 
of  that  city.  In  1873  he  joined  the  Society  of  Jesus,  and  spent  the  early  part  of  his 
religious  career  at  Grand  Coteau,  La.,  where  the  Jesuit  Mission  of  New  Orleans  had 
then  a  novitiate.  Since  he  was  ordained  priest  his  life  has  been  chiefly  passed  with  the 
members  of  his  order  in  New  Orleans.  He  is  one  of  the  most  elegant  pulpit  orators 
of  the  South.  His  delivery  is  charming,  and  his  language  is  forcible,  vigorous,  and 
picturesque.] 

To  the  performance  of  their  duties  did  the  knights  of  old  bind 
their  loyal,  heroic  hearts,  and  so  gladly  and  enthusiastically,  that  in 
earliest  time,  and  before  even  Christianity  had  become  the  very  core 
of  chivalry,  and  the  Church  had  flung  over  its  warriors'  panoply  the 
mantle  of  a  three-fold  consecration,  for  them 

"  Labor  in  the  path  of  duty 
Gleamed  up  like  a  thing  of  beauty." 

And  the  standard  of  it  was  high  ;  none  higher  among  all  the  ideals 
of  human  conduct.  The  respect  and  obedience  paid  by  the  young  to 
the  old,  the  essential  meaning  of  which  was  education  for  the  one 
part  and  self -discipline  for  the  other ;  the  modesty  of  mien,  pure  aims, 
and  high  morality  of  the  young  knights ;  the  courtesy  and  protection 
granted  to  women  ;  the  loyalty  which  was  as  the  substance  of  honor, 
and  the  honor  which  was  as  the  very  life  of  a  man's  soul ;  the  horror 
of  falsehood ;  the  thoroughness  of  the  training  in  moral  purity  and 
physical  prowess,  and  the  splendor  of  the  results  in  certain  characters 
and  achievements — all  make  the  noblest  chapter  of  history. 

No  wonder  that  Edmund  Burke  should  have  exclaimed  in  one 
of  the  grandest  outbursts  of  his  fervid  eloquence :  "  Chivalry  is  the 
unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence  of  nations,  the  nurse  of 
manly  sentiment  and  heroic  enterprise ; "  and  that,  deploring  its  loss 
as  a  social  institution,  a  military  organization,  the  test  of  propriety, 
and  the  guide  of  manners  in  the  higher  ranks  of  society  all  over 
Europe,  he  should  have  let  fall  from  his  lips  the  most  pathetic  dirge 
that  could  be  sung  over  its  fall.  "  Nevermore,"  he  says,  "  shall  we 
behold  that  generous  loyalty  to  rank  and  sex  ;  that  proud  submission ; 
*  [From  a  lecture  delivered  at  Odd  Fellows  Hall,  New  Orleans,  April  5,  1893.] 


CHIVALRY.  175 

that  dignified  obedience ;  that  subordination  of  the  heart,  which  kept 
alive  even  in  servitude  itself  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom ;  that 
sensibility  of  principle ;  that  chastity  of  honor,  which  felt  a  stain  like 
a  wound,  which  inspired  courage  whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which 
ennobled  whatever  it  touched." 

Lest  my  words  to  you  to-night  prove  little  more  than  the  mere 
rehearsing  of  an  oft-told  tale,  hearkened  to  patiently  and  at  the  dawn 
forgotten,  I  must  bid  you  linger  awhile  on  that  sense  of  duty  visible, 
at  every  turn,  in  the  wonderful  fabric  of  chivalry,  and  ruling  the 
brains,  and  firing  the  hearts,  and  nerving  the  arms  of  its  men  of  iron, 
in  the  discharge  of  their  trust  at  the  hour  of  peril. 

When  Wellington,  setting  foot  on  Portuguese  soil,  simply  said, 
"  I  came  here  to  perform  my  duty,"  he  had  .given  utterance  to  what 
gives  bone  and  marrow  to  every  deed  of  true  valor.  Indeed,  if  we 
were  only  roused  to  action  by  the  prospect  of  immediate  gratification 
and  the  pressure  of  immediate  pain,  virtue  alike  and  enterprise  were 
at  an  end. 

We  see  it  daily  and  hourly  in  those  in  whom  that  feeling  is  faint 
or  extinguished.  Their  views  are  short  and  indistinct;  their  hopes 
and  wishes  grovelling ;  their  actions  without  vigor ;  their  energies 
paralyzed  by  a  sullen  and  indolent  content. 

And  if  you  ask  me  why  families  decay,  why  dynasties  crumble, 
why  the  world  is  shaken  from  central  stone  to  hinge  by  periodical 
revolutions,  I  will  tell  you  it  is  because  men  have  made  a  mock  of 
that  word  duty ;  because  they  have  torn  from  the  gospel  of  practical 
life  that  page  in  which  it  is  written  that  rational  obedience  to  duty  is. 
the  very  essence  of  highest  civilized  life,  its  strongest  bulwark,  its. 
only  hope  of  perpetuity.  We  have  not  in  our  power  to  be  crowned 
kings  in  the  proud  realms  of  wealth,  or  in  the  prouder  realms  of  intel- 
lect. The  singular  inward  gifts  and  outward  circumstances  which 
form  the  well-spring  of  such  boasted  royalty  are  within  reach  only 
of  the  select  few;  but  all,  all,  from  enthroned  monarch  to  lowliest 
toiler,  have  it  in  their  power  to  stamp  their  deed  of  hand  with  the 
seal  of  duty. 

Despite  the  hot-headed  theorists,  styling  war  the  eternal  need  of 
human  kind ;  despite  the  calmer  verdict  of  sober  minds,  that 

"War  is  honorable 

In  those  who  do  their  native  right  maintain, 
In  those  whose  swords  an  iron  barrier  are 
Between  the  lawless  spoiler  and  the  weak," 

I  own  my  natural  weakness.  Like  Byron's  "Doge  of  Venice,"  I  have 
not  yet  learned  to  think  of  indiscriminate  murder  without  "some 


176  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

sense  of  shuddering."  When  the  grim  monster's  blood-shot  eye  glares 
upon  me  from  the  pages  of  history,  past  or  contemporary,  I  mark  it 
at  once  as  the  proof  and  scourge  of  man's  fallen  state. 

Yet,  young  gentlemen  that  listen  to  me  to-night,  I  am  not  blinded 
to  the  fact,  that  though  reared  amid  scenes  of  flourishing  peace, 
though  not  wedded  to  the  profession  of  arms  by  irrevocable  choice, 
though  the  pursuit  of  business  claims  your  round  of  days  and  com- 
mands your  energies,  still  you  are  soldiers,  every  one  of  you:  nay, 
more,  you  are  sons  and  brothers  to  the  bravest  men  that  ever  girt 
sword  or  shouldered  musket ;  to  the  noblest  heroes  that  ever  fought, 
bled,  died,  in  the  cause  of  patriotism  or  the  defence  of  liberty ;  to  the 
most  knightly  warriors  that  cannon  signal  or  trumpet  flourish  ever 
summoned  to  bloody  fields ;  to  men  whose  spirits  never  faltered,  whose 
hearts  never  quailed,  whose  cheeks  never  blanched,  whose  resolve 
never  wavered,  whose  courage  never  failed,  through  four  bitter  years 
of  recurring  failure ;  to  men  whose  self-sacrifice  and  mdomitable  ardor 
have  no  parallel  in  the  history  of  any  nation.  Greater  in  their  defeat, 
a  thousand  times  greater  than  they  might  have  been  in  triumph,  the 
boys  in  gray  have  taught  a  conquering  foe  from  the  banks  of  the 
Potomac  to  the  headwaters  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  and  from  Gettysburg 
to  Florida,  that  the  fields  drenched  with  their  young  blood,  and  torn 
by  their  untimely  ago'ny,  can  never  be  lost  fields  so  long  as  the  word 
honor  retains  its  meaning  in  the  lexicon  of  human  speech. 

Not  in  bitterness  have  I  spoken  these  words,  O  my  friends !  Nor 
with  animus  or  revengeful  design,  Heaven  knows !  For  the  day  is 
past,  irretrievably  past,  and  we  bless  the  God  of  peace  for  the  boon, 
when  the  gleaming  blades  that  so  proudly  hang  at  your  sides  on  occa- 
sions might  be  made  to  leap  from  their  scabbards,  to  flash  in  the  sun 
of  civil  broils,  and  sheathe  themselves  in  the  warm  hearts  of  those 
who,  like  yourselves,  were  born  in  the  Union,  of  States. 

In  brotherly  love  we  now  clasp  each  other's  hands  across  the  dark 
•  chasm  of  an  unfortunate  past.  We  own  allegiance  to  a  united  coun- 
try, since  the  angels  of  God  have  stolen  the  bitterness  of  defeat  from 
the  beaten,  and  the  memory  of  victory  from  the  conquerors. 

"  The  hands  of  slain  men  have  soldered  the  rift ; "  and  in  the  soul- 
stirring  words  of  the  Bishop  of  Wilmington,  addressed  to  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Kepublic  on  Decoration  Day,  not  a 
month  ago :  "  By  a  miracle  of  American  patriotism,  the  riven  heart- 
strings of  a  nation  have  again  been  welded  so  firm  and  strong  that  no 
future  tension  can  ever  force  them  to  snap  asunder.  North  and  South 
have  clasped  hands  in  an  undying  friendship." 

Why,  then,  have  I  awakened  to-night  the  slumbering  echoes  of 
by-gono  days  ?  Ah,  you  know  why  !  That  you  might  grave  them  on 


CHIVALRY.  177 

the  tablets  of  your  hearts ;  that  you  might  bind  them  like  shields  about 
your  necks ;  that  you  might  be  reminded  by  them  to  what  achieve- 
ments you  are  heirs;  and  that  great  deeds  are  to  be  Avorked  for, 
bled  for,  died  for,  to-day  as  in  the  days  of  Gettysburg,  Richmond,  and 
Shiloh ;  that  though  war  be  the  dreadful  thing  and  scourge  it  was 
meant  to  be,  you  might  be  pardoned  for  thinking  one  crowded  hour  of 
glorious  life  is  worth  an  age  without  a  name,  and  for  wishing  that 
your  brilliant  uniforms  might  be  more  than  a  mere  parade  dress,  and 
your  good  swords  better  than  glittering  toys ;  but  especially  to  give 
point  to  my  assertion  that  loyal  adherence  to  duty  was  the  true  cheva- 
lier's first  and  engrossing  care. 

Self-reverence  or  self-respect  is  the  most  powerful  and  one  of 
the  most  useful  of  our  mental  habits.  It  is  the  principle  to  which 
the  noblest  actions  of  our  nature  may  be  most  frequently  traced ;  the 
nurse  of  every  splendid  and  every  useful  quality.  How  far  it  may  be 
occasionally  abused  is  a  question  which  has  long  been  disputed  with 
fanatical  acrimony.  Every  human  feeling  is  liable  to  imperfection ; 
nor  can  it  be  considered  a  subject  of  blame,  that  even  our  best  institu- 
tions are  only  a  chance  of  evils. 

A  sense  of  honor,  in  its  widest  meaning,  includes  the  faculty  of 
forming  some  ideal  standard  superior  to  the  lower  nature  of  man  and 
recognizing  in  ourselves  some  power  of  approximating  to  it.  The 
higher  the  standard  the  nobler  will  be  the  man  who  cherishes  it  and 
tries  to  attain  to  it,  but  it  is  by  no  means  a  rare  gift  confined  to  a  few 
select  natures.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  commonest  and  most  uni- 
versal incentive  to  good  conduct.  Even  in  the  rudest  and  simplest 
form  of  admiration  for  physical  courage,  it  makes  heroes  of  many  a 
common  sailor  or  soldier.  It  makes  a  hero  of  the  ship  captain  who 
dies  with  his  passengers  and  leans  over  the  gunwale  to  give  the  part- 
ing boat  its  course,  and  who,  though  conscious  that  his  name  shall 
never  be  heard  above  the  wash  of  the  fatal  waves,  still  goes  down 
quietly  to  his  grave,  rather  than  break  his  faith  to  those  few  emi- 
grants. It  makes  a  hero  of  the  poor  country  clown  who,  fresh  from 
the  plough-tail,  stands  firm  and  undismayed  in  the  shattered  squares  of 
Waterloo  or  on  the  bloody  ridge  of  Inkermann,  because  he  has  been 
brought  up  in  the  fixed  idea  that  a  Briton  must  never  run  from  a 
Frenchman  or  a  Russian. 

But  from  those  common  and  universal  forms  of  self-reverence  we 
rise,  step  by  step,  to  the  higher  ideals,  which  give  us  among  gifted 
natures  what  may  be  called  "the  salt  of  the  earth,"  the  shining 
examples  which  guide  the  world  to  higher  things.  Bayard,  "  fearless 
and  unblamed,"  bleeds  to  death  amid  the  ruins  of  France,  because  he 
scorns  the  help  and  compassion  of  the  rebel  Bourbon.  Sidney,  dying 
12 


178  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

on  the  fields  of  Zutphen,  instead  of  quenching  his  own  intolerable 
thirst,  hands  over  the  cup  of  water  to  the  wounded  sentinel,  because 
his  soul,  nourished  on  noble  thoughts,  and  his  fancy  fed  on  the  old 
ballads  which,  like  that  of  "  Chevy  Chase,"  stirred  him  like  a  trumpet 
blast,  had  led  him  to  conceive  the  ideal  of  a  perfect  knight,  which 
would  have  been  tarnished  by  any  shade  of  a  selfish  action.  Gordon 
sacrifices  his  life  at  Khartoum  not  only  cheerfully,  but  almost  instinc- 
tively, because  the  suggestion  that  he  might  save  himself  by  abandon- 
ing those  who  had  trusted  in  him  seems  an  absolute  impossibility. 

The  grand  figure  of  Lee  towers  above  all  others  in  the  history  of 
our  own  times  and  of  our  own  country,  and  will  tower  still  higher 
when  future  races  of  American  historians  shall  record  its  stirring 
events  with  impartiality,  because  the  great  Yirginian  forsook  home, 
fortune,  a  certain  future,  all — in  his  endeavor  to  choose  what  was 
right.  Indeed,  the  creative  hand  of  God  cannot  fashion  a  nobler 
heart  than  that  which  takes  such  a  motto  for  the  shaping  of  its 
ways ;  nor  can  history  record  a  nobler  life  than  that  in  which  the 
actual  deed  is  in  keeping  with  such  a  guiding  principle. 

It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  live  in  terms  of  close  religious 
intimacy  with  a  veteran  chaplain*  who  served  our  gallant  bands 
during  those  days  of  trying  warfare.  From  that  day  in  April,  1861r 
when  the  first  shot  was  fired  at  Fort  Sumter,  Charleston  Harbor, 
to  that  day  in  April,  1865,  when  the  heroic  struggle  ended  by  the 
surrender  of  Lee's  army  at  Appomattox  Courthouse,  in  Virginia,  his 
priestly  zeal  had  ministered  to  our  troops.  He  had  shared  their 
exultation  in  the  flitting  hours  of  success.  He  had  cheered  their 
drooping  spirits  and  roused  their  energies  in  the  brief  hours  of  dark 
despondency;  and  whether  in  closed  ambulance,  or  on  open  field 
amid  shell,  shot,  grape,  and  canister,  had  shriven  the  wounded,  spoken 
of  duty's  crown  to  the  fallen,  and  made  pure  for  heaven  and  the  land 
of  unbroken  peace  the  parting  spirits  of  the  valorous  deado 

When  I  told  him  of  my  purpose  to  recall  in  this  lecture  those 
scenes  of  past  glory  and  woe,  and  the  memory  of  the  leader  who  had 
wrapped  them  round  with  imperishable  fame,  and  shed  over  them  the 
halo  of  immortality,  the  aged  priest  wrenched  himself  as  if  by  a 
mighty  effort  from  the  vice-like  grasp  of  the  disease  which  crippled 
his  frame.  His  voice  shook  with  an  emotion  which  I  shall  never 
forget.  His  hand  pressed  his  brow  as  if  to  stir  again  to  life  his 
buried  thoughts.  His  eyes,  dimmed  by  years,  sparkled  through  the 
large  tears  that  filled  them,  as  after  a  pause  he  made  reply :  "  Ah, 
tell  them,  the  young  men  of  the  South,  that  during  four  years  these 
eyes  have  been  the  daily  witnesses  of  deeds  of  selfless  devotion  and 

*  [The  late  Rev.  Darius  Hubert,  S.  J.] 


CHIVALRY.  179 

endurance,  which,  when  written,  will  dwarf  the  proudest  records  of 
ancient  chivalry ;  tell  them  that  the  chieftain  whose  hand  so  often 
met  mine  in  the  warm  grasp  of  friendship,  and  who,  even  at  the  head 
of  a  charging  column,  always  paid  me,  the  humble  minister  of  Christ, 
the  courteous  homage  of  a  reverential  bow  which  a  king  might  well 
envy,  was  a  Christian  knight,  truest  of  the  true,  from  foot  to  brow, 
from  heel  to  crown,  all  noble. 

"  Tell  them  that  when  in  open  and  crowded  convention  the  tall 
and  handsome  soldier  accepted  the  position  to  which  he  was  appointed 
by  the  State  of  Virginia,  that  of  Commander-in-Chief  of  all  her  mili- 
tary forces,  his  Avas  a  calm,  self-possessed  dignity,  the  like  of  which  I 
have  not  seen  in  other  men.  When,  with  the  grace  of  manner  which 
distinguished  him,  he  accepted  his  new  responsibilities,  '  trusting  in 
Almighty  God,  the  voice  of  my  approving  conscience,  and  the  aid  of 
my  fellow-citizens,'  he  was  the  picture  of  the  ideal  patriot  marked  as 
one  to  be  forever  remembered  by  all  Americans. 

"  There  never  was  in  history  a  great  man  whose  life  was  one  such 
blameless  record  of  duty  nobly  done. 

"  A  perfect  gentleman  of  a  State  long  renowned  for  its  chivalry, 
he  was  just,  gentle,  generous,  childlike  in  the  simplicity  of  his  char- 
acter. His  amiability  of  disposition,  deep  sympathy  with  those  in 
sorrow  and  pain,  his  nice  sense  of  personal  honor,  and  genial  courtesy 
endeared  him  to  all  his  friends.  I  shall  never  forget  his  sweet,  winning 
smile,  and  his  clear,  honest  eyes,  that  seemed  to  look  into  your  heart 
while  they  searched  your  brain.  He  is  stamped  upon  my  memory  as 
a  being  apart  and  superior  to  all  others — a  man  Avith  whom  feAv  of 
Avhom  I  have  ever  read  are  worthy  to  be  classed." 


THE   ORIGINS  OF  SOME   OF  THE    COLONIAL  FAMILIES 
OF  LOUISIANA  * 

BY    CHARLES    PATTON    DIMITRY. 

[CHARLES  PATTOX  DIMITRY,  second  son  of  Professor  Alexander  Dimitry,  was  born 
in  Washington,  D.  C.,  July  31,  1837.  He  was  educated,  for  the  most  part,  at  George- 
town College.  During  the  Civil  War  he  served  in  the  Confederate  Array  as  a  private,  in 
the  Louisiana  Guards.  Since  the  war  he  has  been  connected  with  the  press  of  Baltimore, 
Washington,  Richmond,  and  Xew  Orleans.  He  has  written  several  novels,  which  Mr.  J. 
Wood  Davidson,  in  the  Living  Writers  of  the  South  (1869),  has  pronounced  "distinctly 
able,  and  all  clearly  above  the  range  of  the  popular  novels  of  the  day."  Of  The  House 
in  Balfour  Street,  which  Mr.  Dimitry  published  in  1868,  the  same  critic  says:  "[It 
reminds]  one,  by  some  vague  temper  pervading  it,  of  Hawthorne  and  Dickens,  at  one 
and  the  same  time,  while  it  is  utterly  unlike  both.  There  is  as  much  of  the  poet  as 
of  the  romancist  in  it."  Mr.  Dimitry's  last  work,  issued  in  serials  in  the  New  Orleans 
Times  Democrat,  is  Louisiana  Families  (1892-93).] 

THE  records  of  Louisiana's  colonial  families  show  that  while  many 
of  their  ancestors  came  hither  directly  from  France,  and  many  from 
San  Domingo  by  the  way  of  American  cities  more  to  the  northward 
of  us,  the  majority,  probably  (although  of  French  ancestry),  arrived  in 
the  colony  as  officers  of  the  Infantry  of  the  Marine  (the  Louisiana 
colonial  troops)  from  Canada,  There  is  also  the  Spanish  element, 
which,  from  1T69,  when  the  Spanish  rule  in  Louisiana  became  estab- 
lished, added  the  infusion  of  Castilian  blood  to  the  old  population. 
Ireland,  too,  sent  many  branches  of  her  ancient  families  to  give  variety 
to  the  human  mosaic  of  the  peoples  whose  representatives,  gathered 
together  from  afar,  had  laid  the  foundation  of  Louisiana  society,  giving 
to  it  its  exceptional  tone  and  qualities — its  elegance,  chivalry,  and 
courtesy,  and,  it  may  be  added,  in  all  truth,  its  exemplary  sense  of 
honor  and  self-respect. 

Leading  the  list  of  provinces  and  departments  of  France  which 
gave  to  Louisiana  the  elements  of  the  majority  of  her  old  families  is 
Brittany,  a  land  of  chivalry,  of  poetic  and  romantic  memories,  of  a 
people  pious,  of  brave  soldiers  and  sailors.  Normandy,  also,  the  dwell- 
ing place  of  knights  and  seigneurs  of  old,  whence  went  with  William, 
their  Duke,  the  barons  whose  names  are  read  in  the  roll  of  Battle 
Abbey — Normandy,  forever  associated  with  memories  of  the  rearing 

*[This  selection  forms  part  of  the  conclusion  to  the  work  entitled  Louisiana 
Families,  and  was  read  by  the  author  before  an  appreciative  audience  in  New  Orleans, 
November  13,  1893.] 


ORIGINS  OF  SOME  COLONIAL  FAMILIES  OF  LOUISIANA.     181 

of  the  structure  of  English  laws  and  English  society,  and  of  the  bring- 
ing to  perfection  and  completeness  the  English  language — JSormandy, 
mingling  in  the  land  of  conquest  with  the  strong  Saxon  blood  that 
had  preceded  the  going  thither  of  her  sons  and  producing  a  people 
great  at  home,  and  not  less  great  in  their  English-speaking  progeny 
of  the  United  States — Normandy  sent  many  families  to  Louisiana. 
Others  came  from  Provence,  from  Dauphine,  from  Lorraine,  from 
Burgundy,  from  Champagne,  Alsace,  Poitou,  the  Bourbonnais,  and 
some  came  from  the  cities  of  Paris,  Marseilles,  Nantes,  and  Bordeaux, 
and  from  the  towns  of  Grenoble,  La  Eochelle,  N" oemy,  Estampes,  and 
Brie.  Some  came  with  titles  of  ancient  nobility,  with  commissions 
signed  by  three  Louises  of  France,  as  Knights  of  the  Order  of  St.  Louis, 
as  officers  of  the  army ;  while  others,  bearing  no  titles,  came  to  Louis- 
iana, breathing  the  free  and  ennobling  air  of  which  constituted  for 
them  and  their  posterity  a  liberal  and  sufficient  patent  of  nobility. 

In  following  the  lineages  of  some  of  our  Louisiana  families  of  greater 
or  less  antiquity  there  is  a  re-opening  of  doors,  as  it  were,  and  strange 
and  picturesque  historical  vistas  appear  before  the  mental  vision.  The 
characters,  men  and  women,  of  forgotten  days — days  almost  as  extinct 
as  if  they  never  had  been — come  trooping  before  us.  The  crusader  is 
there  with  face  stern  and  martial  in  expression,  and  yet,  in  repose, 
illumined  with  the  light  of  faith  and  of  a  pious  zeal.  The  chatelain 
looks  from  castle-turret  over  his  broad  domain,  and  the  men-at-arms 
cross  the  drawbridge  according  as  the  varying  trumpet  sounds  the 
departure  or  the  return.  The  inarches  of  armies  are  again  revealed ; 
from  Italy  they  return  to  France  singing  songs  of  victory  and  bringing 
with  them  civilizing  lessons  from  Padua  and  Mantua  and  Florence,  and 
wonderful  tales  of  the  mighty  civilizations,  the  embers  of  whose  great- 
ness still  smouldered  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea. 

The  mousquetaire  gris  or  the  mousquetaire  noir,  like  that  Chevalier 
de  la  Marjolaine,  "toujours  gai,"  crosses  the  scene  with  his  pretty 
embroidered  cloak,  his  high  russet  boots,  his  perfumed  ringletty  hair, 
and  his  steel-sheathed  rapier.  Among  those  who  appear  and  disap- 
pear, filling  the  intervals  of  the  generations,  are  King's  Councillors, 
Councillors  of  Parliament,  officers  in  the  households  of  kings  and  in 
their  military  and  naval  services,  chevaliers,  some  so  born  and  some  so 
appointed,  men  adorning  the  civil  and  unofficial  walks  of  life.  There 
are  there,  also,  the  glint  of  jewels,  of  coronets,  of  gold  and  silver 
decorations  and  ornaments,  and  the  garbs  of  silk  and  satin,  velvet  and 
cloth.  In  a  palace  of  the  ancient  Scottish  Kings  a  man  out  of  Italy 
(David  Eizzio  was  his  name),  with  dark,  languishing  eyes,  in  his  com- 
position something  of  the  troubadour,  the  improvisatore,  the  professor, 
but  most  of  all  the  lover,  reclines  upon  a  rude  flooring,  on  a  damask 


182  SPECIMENS  OF  ORATORY. 

of  the  weavery  of  the  looms  of  Venice,  at  the  feet  of  a  royal  patroness, 
a  beautiful  queen,  the  azure  of  whose  eyes,  the  ruddy  hue  of  whose 
hair,  and  the  pink  and  white  of  whose  satin  cheeks  are  repeated  in 
the  eyes  and  hair  and  cheeks  of  the  fair  maids  of  honor  who  sur- 
round her,  sitting  at  their  spinning-wheels  and  listening  mute  while 
the  troubadour  touches  with  suave  fingers  the  strings  of  his  mandolin, 
singing  for  their  delectation  love  songs  of  the  Arno  and  gay  barcaroles 
of  the  lagunas  of  Venice,  or  relates  the  legends  of  spectre-haunted 
halls  of  gray  Florentine  palaces,  the  story  of  the  riches  of  the  Medicis, 
the  traditions  of  the  Vivaldis,  the  Grimaldis,  and  the  Dorias,  of  Genoa, 
the  tale  of  the  two  lovers  of  Verona,  Messer  Romeo  Montesche  and 
sweet  Madama  Giulietta  Capoletto,  who  died  for  love  and  were  en- 
tombed together  in  the  tomb  of  the  Capoletti  in  the  Campo-Santo  of 
the  old  Italian  city,  and  the  quaint  sayings  of  Ser  Riggoletto,  the 
Duke's  jester  of  Mantua.  And  so,  as  the  nearer  doors  open  and  the 
more  modern  vistas  appear,  the  vistas  revealed  are  vistas  of  Louisiana 
— fairest  scene  of  all — her  forests,  her  prairies,  her  dark  and  odorous 
lagoons.  Bienville,  with  light  helmet  decked  with  feathers,  and  clad 
in  half-armor,  walks  in  the  Place  d'Armes  with  his  officers,  while  the 
rolling  of  the  drums  that  beat  a  salute  at  morn  to  the  flag  of  the  fleur- 
de-lys  blends  with  the  hymn  that  is  sung  in  the  old  convent  on  Conde 
Street  by  the  pious  sisterhood  of  the  Ursuline  Nuns. 

Sometimes  a  pedestrian  wending  his  way  late  at  night  along  a  city's 
street  will  hear,  coming  from  a  dwelling,  the  sounds  of  music,  the 
murmur  of  many  voices,  the  echoes  of  merry  laughter.  If  he  will 
pause  for  awhile  at  the  window  and  gaze  at  the  scene,  he  will  behold  a 
goodly  company,  gallant  men  and  graceful  women.  But  there  must 
come  a  time  when  the  merriment  is  over,  and  when  silence  and  quiet 
prevail  where  was  bustle  and  motion.  And  so  the  lights  are  extin- 
guished, and,  like  visions  wrought  by  the  imagination  out  of  enchanted 
materials,  the  company  vanishes,  the  gallant  men  and  the  graceful 
women  disappear,  and  are  seen  no  more. 


PART    III. 

ESSAYS. 

SECTION  I.    CONTROVEKSIAL. 


THE  BATTURE  CASE. 

BY    EDWARD    LIVINGSTON. 

[EDWARD  LIVINGSTON,  bern  in  Clermont,  N.  Y.,  May  26,  1764.;  died  in  Rhinebeck, 
N.  Y.,  May  23,  1836.  Vide  page  62.] 

[ANSWER  TO  THOMAS  JEFFERSON.] 

"Ah!  little  knowest  thou,  who  hast  not  tried, 
What  hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide; 
To  lose  good  days  that  might  be  better  spent, 
To  pass  long  nights  in  pensive  discontent; 
To  speed  to-day,  to  be  put  back  to-morrow, 
To  feed  on  hope,  to  pine  with  fear  and  sorrow; 
To  fret  thy  soul  with  crosses  and  with  care, 
To  eat  thy  heart  through  comfortless  despair; 
To  fawn,  to  crouch,  to  wait,  to  ride,  to  run, 
To  spend,  to  give,  to  want,  tp  be  undone; 
Unhappy  wight !  such  hard  fate  doomed  to  try  ; 
That  fate  God  send  unto  mine  enemy." 

SPENSER. 

WHEN  a  public  functionary  abuses  his  power  by  an  act  which  bears 
on  the  community,  his  conduct  excites  attention,  provokes  popular  re- 
sentment, and  seldom  fails  to  receive  the  punishment  it  merits.  Should 
an  individual  be  chosen  for  the  victim,  little  sympathy  is  created  for 
his  sufferings,  if  the  interest  of  all  is  supposed  to  be  promoted  by  the 
ruin  of  one.  The  gloss  of  zeal  for  the  public  is  therefore  always  spread 
over  acts  of  oppression,  and  the  people  are  sometimes  made  to  consider 
that  as  a  brilliant  exertion  of  energy  in  their  favor,  which,  when 
viewed  in  its  true  light,  would  be  found  a  fatal  blow  to  their  rights. 

In  no  government  is  this  effect  so  easily  produced  as  in  a  free 
republic  :  party  spirit,  inseparable  from  its  existence,  there  aids  the 
illusion,  and  a  popular  leader  is  allowed  in  many  instances  impunity, 
and  sometimes  rewarded  with  applause  for  acts  that  would  make  a 
tyrant  tremble  on  Ms  throne.  This  evil  must  exist  in  a  degree ;  it  is 
founded  in  the  natural  course  of  human  passions.  But  in  a  wise  and 
enlightened  nation  it  will  be  restrained,  and  the  consciousness  that  it 
must  exist  will  make  such  a  people  more  watchful  to  prevent  its  abuse. 
These  reflections  occur  to  one  whose  property,  without  trial  or  any  of 
the  forms  of  law,  has  been  violently  seized  by  the  First  Magistrate  of 


186  ESS  A  YS—CONTRO  YE  RSI  A  L. 

the  Union,  who  has  hitherto  vainly  solicited  an  inquiry  into  his  title, 
who  has  seen  the  conduct  of  his  oppressor  excused  or  applauded,  and 
who,  in  the  book  he  is  about  to  examine,  finds  an  attempt  openly  to 
justify  that  conduct  upon  principles  as  dangerous  as  the  act  was  illegal 
and  unjust.  This  book  relates  to  a  case  which  has  long  been  before 
the  public,  and  purports  to  be  the  substance  of  instructions  prepared 
by  Thomas  Jefferson,  late  President  of  the  United  States,  for  his 
counsel  in  a  suit  instituted  by  me  against  him.  After  a  few  years' 
earnest  entreaty,  I  have  at  length  obtained  a  statement  of  the  reasons 
which  induced  him  to  take  those  violent  and  unconstitutional  measures 
of  which  I  have  complained. 

It  would  perhaps  be  deemed  unreasonable  to  quarrel  with  Mr. 
Jefferson  for  the  delay,  when  we  reflect  how  necessary  Mr.  Moreau's 
Latin  and  Mr.  Thierry's  Greek,  Poydras'  elegant  invective  and  his  own 
Anglo-Saxon  researches,  were  to  excuse  an  act,  for  which,  at  the  time 
he  committed  it,  he  had  no  one  plausible  reason  to  allege.  Such  an 
act  is  certainly  easier  to  perform  than  to  justify ;  and  Mr.  Jefferson  has 
been  right  in  taking  four  years  to  consider  what  excuse  he  should  give 
to  the  world  for  his  conduct,  and  still  more  so  in  laying  under  contri- 
bution all  writings,  all  languages,  all  laws,  and  in  calling  to  his  aid  all 
the  popular  prejudices  which  his  own  conduct  had  excited  against  me. 
He  wanted  all  this,  and  more,  to  make  a  decent  defence.  But  it  was 
rather  awkward  to  press  into  his  service  facts  which  it  is  confessed  he 
did  not  know  at  the  time,  and  something  worse  than  awkward  to 
impose  on  the  public  by  false  translations  and  garbled  testimony.  But 
we  must  excuse  the  late  President.  "  His  wish  had  rather  been  for  a 
full  investigation  of  the  merits  at  the  bar,  that  the  public  might 
learn  in  that  way  that  their  servants  had  done  nothing  but  what  the 
laws  had  authorized  and  required  them  to  do  " — "  and  precluded  now 
from  this  mode  of  justification,  he  adopts  that  of  publishing  what  was 
meant  originally  for  the  private  eye  of  counsel."  I  give  the  words  of 
the  author  here,  lest  in  this  extraordinary  sentence  I  should  be  sus- 
pected of  having  misrepresented  or  misunderstood  him.  An  individual 
holding  a  tract  of  land  under  one  whose  title  has  been  acknowledged, 
and  whose  possession  has  been  confirmed  by  a  court  of  competent 
authority,  is  violently  dispossessed  by  the  orders  of  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  without  any  of  the  forms  of  law  and  in  violation  of  the 
most  sacred  provisions  of  the  Constitution.  The  ruined  sufferer  seeks 
redress  first  by  expostulation :  he  offers  to  submit  to  the  decision  of 
indifferent  men,  and  he  is  refused  ;  he  offers  to  abide  by  men  chosen 
by  the  President,  and  he  is  refused  ;  he  offers,  in  the  simplicity  of  his 
heart,  to  acquiesce  in  the  opinion  of  the  President  himself,  and  he  is 
refused.  He  is  not  even  permitted  to  exhibit  his  proofs.  Fearing  the 


THE  BATTURE  CASE.  187 

conviction  they  would  produce,  he  is  told  that,  though  the  President 
could  take,  he  cannot  restore ;  that  he  can  injure,  but  not  redress  ;  and 
that  Congress  alone  are  competent  to  grant  him  relief.  To  Congress 
then  he  applies :  here  the  same  baneful  influence  prevails.  After  two 
voyages  of  three  thousand  miles  each,  after  two  years  of  painful  sus- 
pense and  humiliating  solicitation,  after  the  attendance  of  three  ses- 
sions, he  finds  that  no  means  can  be  devised  for  his  relief — that  the 
friends  of  that  man  who  "  wishes  for  a  full  investigation  of  the  merits 
at  the  bar  "  defeat  every  plan  for  bringing  the  case  before  a  court, 
vote  against  every  law  providing  for  a  trial,  and  effectually,  as  they 
think  and  he  hopes,  bar  all  access  to  any  tribunal  where  the  dreaded 
merits  of  the  case  could  be  shown.  Harassed  but  not  dispirited,  the 
injured  party,  finding  that  no  legislative  aid  can  be  expected  to  restore 
his  property,  at  length  applies  for  a  compensation  in  damages.  He 
appeals  to  the  laws  of  his  country,  and  is  willing  to  abide  by  the 
decision  of  a  jury,  in  a  country  where  long  residence,  great  wealth,  the 
influence  which  had  been  created  by  office,  and  a  coincidence  of  politi- 
cal opinion  gave  every  advantage  to  his  opponent.  Here,  then,  is  an 
opportunity  which  a  man  desirous  of  open  investigation  will  not 
neglect.  The  upright  officer  who  has  been  unjustly  accused  of  oppres- 
sion will  justify  himself  to  his  country,  and  cover  his  accuser  with 
confusion.  The  vigilant  guardian  of  the  public  rights  will  defend 
them  before  an  enlightened  tribunal,  and  expose  the  rapacity  of  the 
intruder.  He  who  stands  "  conscious  and  erect '?  will  rejoice  in  the 
investigation  of  his  innocence ;  he  will  discard  every  form,  and  proudly 
dare  his  adversary  to  a  discussion  of  the  merits ! 

But  the  man  I  speak  of  does  not  do  this ;  the  man  I  speak  of  dare 
not  do  this.  He  feared  the  learned  integrity  of  a  court ;  he  feared  the 
honest  independence  of  a  jury.  He  entrenched  himself  in  demurrers, 
sneaked  behind  a  paltry  plea  to  the  jurisdiction,  and  now  publishes  to 
the  world  that  he  is  precluded  from  this  mode  of  justification,  and 
that  "  his  wish  had  been  for  a  full  investigation  of  the  merits  at  the 
##/•." 

If  such  indeed  were  his  wish,  why  was  it  not  gratified  ?  and  by 
whom  was  he  precluded  from  this  favorite  mode  of  defence  ?  He  does 
not,  indeed,  hazard  the  direct  assertion  that  it  was  the  unsolicited  act 
of  the  court.  His  plea  to  the  jurisdiction,  his  demurrers — not  to  men- 
tion an  attempt  to  stifle  the  suit  in  its  birth  by  a  rule  to  find  security 
for  costs — all  these  would  too  apparently  falsify  such  an  assertion. 
But  though  not  stated  in  direct  terms,  is  not  the  idea  strongly  con- 
veyed ?  Was  it  not  meant  to  be  thus  conveyed  \  When  Mr.  Jeffer- 
son says  that  the  suit  was  dismissed  on  the  question  of  jurisdiction, 
and  that  "  his  wish  had  rather  been  for  a  full  investigation  of  the 


188  ESS  A  YS—COXTRO  VERSIA  L. 

merits  at  the  bar,*'  what  are  we  to  conclude  ?  What,  I  repeat,  did 
he  intend  we  should  conclude,  but  that  the  decision  of  the  court 
Avas  unsolicited,  and  contrary  to  his  wish  ?  And  yet  he,  the  gentle- 
man who  tells  us  this,  had  put  in  a  plea  to  the  jurisdiction ;  that  is 
to  say,  prayed  the  court  to  dismiss  the  case  without  an  investigation 
of  the  merits.  He  did  more.  Fearing  that  the  question  might  be 
decided  against  him,  he  put  in  a  demurrer  to  the  declaration ;  that 
is  to  say,  he  took  an  exception  to  its  form,  and  prayed  the  court  a 
second  time  that  on  this  account  also  the  case  might  be  dismissed 
without  an  investigation  of  the  merits.  He  did  not  stop  here.  A 
third  battery  was  erected.  He  pleaded  another  plea,  that  he  did  the 
act  complained  of  as  President  of  the  United  States,  and  therefore  he 
ought  not  to  be  made  liable  in  his  individual  capacity ;  and  a  third 
time  prayed  the  court  that  the  case  might  be  dismissed  without  an 
investigation  of  the  merits.  How  Mr.  Jefferson  can  reconcile  these 
pleas  with  his  wish  to  obtain  a  hearing  on  the  merits,  it  is  difficult  to 
conceive.  The  coward  who,  on  receiving  a  challenge,  resorts  to  the 
interposition  of  a  magistrate,  might  as  well  bluster  about  his  desire 
fairly  to  face  his  adversary,  and  complain  that  he  was  precluded  from 
giving  him  satisfaction.  Yet  this  preclusion  is  stated  by  Mr.  Jeiferson 
as  his  reason  for  publishing  the  work  which  I  am  now  about  to  exam- 
ine. He  had  many  advantages  in  the  execution,  and  promised  himself 
many  more  in  the  effects,  of  this  production.  The  subject  has  been 
fully  and  ably  discussed,  but  the  publications  on  the  adverse  side  were 
not  in  many  hands.  A  considerable  time  had  elapsed  since  the  sub- 
ject engaged  the  public  attention.  He  had,  therefore,  only  to  arrange 
the  arguments  in  his  favor,  to  suppress  or  mutilate  the  conclusive 
answers  which  had  been  given  to  them,  to  collect  all  the  quotations 
which  had  been  issued  in  the  discussion,  to  give  a  new  dress  and  the 
sanction  of  his  name  to  the  calumnies  circulated  against  his  opponent ; 
and  he  could  make  a  book  that  should  astonish  by  the  polyglot  learn- 
ing of  its  quotations,  amaze  by  the  profundity  of  its  borrowed  research, 
and  delight  kindred  minds  by  the  poignant  elegance  of  its  satire.  Add 
to  these  the  advantages  of  using  hearsay  testimony,  exparte  testimony, 
interested  testimony,  his  own  testimony ;  of  quoting  authorities,  with 
an  et  cetera  for  those  parts  which  bear  against  his  positions ;  of  omit- 
ting a  word  in  the  translation  of  a  deed,  and  founding  a  long  argument 
on  the  false  reading  thus  created ;  add  the  facility  of  gaining  over  to 
his  party  that  large  portion  of  mankind  who  find  it  much  more 
convenient  to  be  convinced  by  the  reputation  of  the  author  than  to 
examine  his  work ;  and,  above  all,  the  hope  that  disappointment  and 
despondence  might  silence  his  opponent — and  we  shall  have  much  bet- 
ter reasons  for  resorting  to  a  publication  of  his  "  instructions  to  coun- 


THE  BATTURE  CASE.  189 

sel,"  than  the  alleged  preclusion  of  a  hearing  at  the  bar.  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  causes  which  produced  this  work,  I  rejoice  exceed- 
ingly in  the  effect.  My  wish  also  had  rather  been  for  a  full  investiga- 
tion of  the  merits  at  the  bar ;  but  an  appeal  to  the  public  is  preferred, 
and  I  shall  not  decline  it.  Causes  of  less  importance  have  sometimes 
excited  an  interest  not  only  in  the  countries  where  they  originated, 
but  abroad.  The  despotic  King  of  Prussia  could  not  oppress  one  of 
his  subjects  under  the. forms  of  law,  without  exciting  the  indignation 
of  Europe.  Lawyers  of  the  greatest  eminence  took  cognizance  of  the 
affair ;  and  the  force  of  public  opinion,  even  in  a  military  monarchy, 
obliged  the  Prince  to  do  justice  to  the  vassal.  Shall  I,  then,  fear  a 
less  beneficial  effect,  when  I  can  show  that  the  free  citizen  of  a  free 
country  has  been  deprived  of  his  property  by  its  First  Magistrate, 
without  even  the  forms  of  law  ?  I  do  not  fear  it.  However  dull  may 
be  the  discussion,  however  laborious  the  research,  it  will  not  deter 
those  who  have  an  interest  in  inquiring  whether  their  "  servant  has 
done  his  duty,"  or  has  been  guilty  of  unconstitutional  violence.  I 
invite  readers  of  this  description  to  follow  me  in  the  investigation  I 
am  about  to  make.  So  much  misrepresentation  has  been  used  in  the 
discussion  that  it  will  be  necessary  to  begin  with  a  statement  of  facts, 
which  shall  be  as  brief  as  may  be  consistent  with  a  development  of 
material  circumstances. 

The  Mississippi  flows  through  a  country  evidently  gained  from 
the  sea,  for  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  its  mouth.  On 
the  western  side,  alluvial  country  has  a  much  greater  extent.  As  in 
all  lands  formed  wholly  by  the  deposit  of  rivers  which  overflow,  the 
ground  is  highest  near  the  bank,  and  slopes  in  an  inclined  plane  to  the 
level  of  the  waters  which  receive  those  of  the  river,  terminating  here 
at  irregular  distances  in  cypress  swamps  or  trembling  prairies*  This 
conformation  of  the  soil  is  very  evident  and  uniform  on  the  Mississippi. 
The  surface  of  the  water,  when  it  is  not  swelled  by  the  rains  and  dis- 
solving snows  above,  is  at  ^ew  Orleans  about  nine  feet  below  the 
natural  bank.  When  swelled  to  its  greatest  height,  it  rises  about  five 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  bank,  and  would  of  course  overflow  the 
whole  country,  unless  dykes,  there  called  levees,  were  raised  to  con- 
fine it.  These  are  about  the  average  measures.  There  are  places  in 
which  they  vary,  where  the  natural  bank  is  not  above  five  or  six  feet 
above  the  surface  at  low  water,  and  where,  of  course,  an  embank- 
ment of  nine  feet  and  upwards  is  necessary  to  retain  the  water  in  its 
swell. 

*  Those  marshes  which  have  not  acquired  a  sufficient  consistency  to  produce  trees, 
and  shake  to  a  considerable  distance  when  trodden  on,  are,  in  Louisiana,  called  prairies 
tremblantes. 


190  ESS  A  YS—  CONTR  0  VERSIAL. 

The  Mississippi  is  a  deep,  rapid,  meandering,  and  turbid  river. 
From  these  characteristics  it  results  that,  where  it  flows,  as  it  gener- 
ally does,  through  a  light  soil,  it  makes  frequent  encroachments  on  the 
one  bank ;  and  wherever  the  water  becomes  stagnant  behind  a  point, 
or  at  the  edge  of  an  eddy,  leaves  a  deposit  on  the  other.  Should  this 
deposit  be  made  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  it  forms  a  sandbank,  and 
when  it  rises  above  the  surface  of  the  water  at  its  natural  height,  an 
island.  But  if  the  deposit  be  made,  as  it  generally  is,  adjacent  to  the 
bank,  it  then  becomes  what  is  called  in  the  country  a  latture,  or  allu- 
vion. These  battures,  low  at  first,  gradually  rise,  by  successive  de- 
posits, above  the  surface  of  the  water  at  its  natural  height ;  and  when 
they  are  increased,  so  as  not  to  leave  more  than  five  or  six  feet  of 
water  upon  them  at  the  time  of  the  inundation — that  is  to  say,  when 
they  attain  the  height,  or  nearly  the  height,  of  the  natural  bank — the 
proprietor  of  the  land  in  front  of  which  they  are  formed  generally 
raises  a  new  embankment,  or  levee,  so  as  to  include  the  soil  thus  created, 
and  protect  it  from  the  inundation.  The  land  thus  gained  becomes 
incorporated  with  the  original  plantation,  the  old  embankment  is  suf- 
fered to  decay,  and  the  road  is  generally  removed,  so  as  to  continue 
along  the  course  of  the  old  levee.  These  battures  are  very  common  on 
the  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  and,  as  the  land  is  valuable,  they  are 
generally  reclaimed  in  the  manner  I  have  stated. 

The  only  lands  in  the  lower  part  of  the  province  which  were 
capable  of  cultivation  lie  immediately  on  the  river  and  its  branches, 
here  called  layous ;  the  grants  therefore  were  located  in  an  oblong 
form,  extending  generally  from  ten  to  twenty  arpents  in  front,  by 
forty  in  depth,  except  in  particular  situations,  in  which  the  nature  of 
the  soil  induced  the  grantee  to  take  a  greater  extent  back.  The  road 
was  parallel  to  the  river,  generally  within  the  embankment,  but  some- 
times upon  it. 

This  land  was  acquired  by  the  order  of  Jesuits  in  three  different 
purchases — one  in  the  year  1726  from  Mr.  de  Bienville,  Governor  of 
the  Province,  another  from  the  same  person  in  1728,  and  a  third  in 
1743  from  Mr.  Breton. 

In  the  year  1763  the  order  of  Jesuits  was  abolished,  and  all  its 
estates  forfeited  to  the  Crown.  Although  the  province  had  been  ceded 
by  France  to  Spain,  yet  as  the  treaty  was  still  secret  and  was  not 
executed  until  six  years  afterwards,  the  edict  of  confiscation  took 
place  for  the  benefit  of  the  Crown  of  France,  and  under  it  the  estate 
of  the  Jesuits  of  New  Orleans  was  seized.  These  thirty-two  arpents 
forming  a  part  of  it  were  divided  into  six  lots,  and  sold  at  auction  by 
the  same  usual  description,  so  many  acres  front.  The  part  of  this  land 
adjoining  the  city  was  purchased  by  persons  from  whom  it  passed, 


THE  BATTURE  CASE.  191 

by  regular  conveyance,  to  Bertrand  Gravier,  who  cultivated  it  as  a 
plantation.     .     .     . 

Having  established  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  the  United  States 
were  not  bound  by  the  proceedings  in  the  suit  which  had  been  deter- 
mined, the  most  natural  course  to  be  expected  would  be  for  the  Presi- 
dent to  institute  one  to  which  they  should  be  a  party  ;  but  this  was 
too  much  in  the  common  line.  Mr.  Jefferson  did  not  like  playing  at 
"j?ush-pin"  as  he  elegantly  terms  it ;  the  forms  of  law  were  too  slow 
to  satisfy  his  eager  desire  to  do  justice.  There  had  been  a  commotion 
among  the  people — there  had  been  an  open  opposition  to  the  execution 
of  the  laws  ;  and  he  seems  to  have  had  a  natural  sympathy  for  those 
who  were  guilty  of  it.  Profaning  the  sacred  exertions  of  our  own 
[Revolutionary  patriots  by  an  assimulation  with  his  own  agency  in  the 
paltry  squabble,  his  imagination  took  fire  at  a  striking  similarity  he 
discovered  between  the  judgment  in  the  case  of  the  batture  and  the 
Massachusetts  Port  Bill,  between  the  opening  of  my  canal  and  the 
"  occlusion "  of  the  Boston  harbor — he  pants  for  the  wreaths  of 
Hancock,  Adams,  and  Otis — and  he  bravely  determines  to  hurl  all  the 
vengeance  of  the  Government  at  the  unprotected  head  of  an  humble 
individual,  who  had  nothing  for  his  defence  but  the  feeble  barriers  of 
Constitution,  Treaty,  and  Laws. 


SECESSION  AND  COERCION.* 

BY    B.    J.    SAGE. 

[BERNARD  JAXIX  SAGE,  the  well-known  Louisiana  lawyer,  was,  in  1865,  one  of  the 
counsel  selected  to  defend  Jefferson  Davis  against  the  charge  of  treason.  Being  at 
the  time  in  London,  he  sent  from  that  city  the  proof-sheets  of  his  Republic  of  Republics, 
which  purported  to  be  the  monograph  of  P.  C.  Centz,  an  English  barrister.  After  care- 
fully reading  this  work,  Charles  O'Conor,  chief  of  the  Davis  counsel,  wrote  to  the 
author,  who  was  still  in  England  :  "If  upon  the  numerous  points  that  any  lawyer  can 
see  in  the  case  I  could  prepare  so  admirable  and  overwhelmingly  conclusive  a  brief  as 
the  protest,  my  task  (of  defending  Davis)  would  be  slight  indeed."] 

IT  is  incontrovertible  that  the  federal  system  is  states  united,  and 
that  these  must  always  be  sovereign,  and  superior  to  the  governments 
they  create.  It  is  equally  plain  that  the  "  national  unity,"  the  "  abso- 
lute supremacy "  of  "the  government,"  and  the  allegiance  of  the 
states  thereto,  which  are  asserted  by  the  Massachusetts  school,  are 
absurd  and  pernicious,  as  well  as  traitorous  falsehoods. 

This  "federal  system"  is  precisely  what  Montesquieu  and  other 
publicists  happily  call  a  "  republic  of  republics."  Natural  persons  by 
social  compact  form  the  society  called  the  state,  which  is  a  republic. 
Such  state  is  a  moral  or  political  person,  as  contra-distinguished  from 
a  natural  one.  For  mutual  protection  and  general  government,  it 
joins  other  such  political  persons  in  federal  compact,  thus  forming 
the  "republic  of  republics,"  or  "union  of  states,"  as  the  federal 
instrument  characterizes  the  system  formed  by  it.  "  Community  of 
communities,"  "confederation  of  republics,"  "united  states,"  etc., 
etc.,  are  other  phrases  of  public  writers,  signifying  the  same  political 
system. 

Natural  persons,  then,  form  states,  while  these,  as  political  persons, 
form  the  federation  called  "the  United  States."  The  constitution 
contemplates  these  political  bodies  as  solely  the  sources  of  power,  and 
of  elective  right.  Every  voter  acts  for  the  state,  and  gets  his  special 
endowment  of  authority  to  vote  from  her  alone.  She  settles  the 
matter,  as  a  sovereign,  in  her  organic  law.  Hence  we  see  that  the 
representatives  are  elected  by  the  states,  as  are  the  senators  and 
the  President ;  and  "that  all  of  these,  together  with  the  officers  they 
appoint,  are  u  the  government  of  the  .  .  .  states"  under  "the 
constitution  of  the  .  .  .  states" 

*  [Republic  of  Republics.} 


SECESSION  AND  COERCION.  193 

Omitting  from  the  above  constitutional  phrases  the  participial 
adjective  which,  with  the  sense  of  joined  or  associated,  qualifies  or 
describes  states,  we  easily  distinguish  between  the  political  entities 
that  form  the  federal  system,  and  their  mere  qualities ;  and  see  that 
the  only  nation  we  have,  or  can  have,  is  self-united  or  associated  states 
— the  system  being  properly  described  as  a  "  republic  of  republics,"  or 
a  "  union  of  states." 

KO   COXSnTUnOKAL.    OOEECIOX   OF   STATES. 

Our  states  being  equal  and  voluntarily  joined,  the  constitution 
being  the  expression  of  their  will,  and  the  federal  government  being 
their  agency,  in  the  very  nature  of  things  no  coercive  power  over 
them  could  be  derived  from  the  constitution.  Moreover,  if  they  were 
once  voluntary  parties,  they  could  not  have  become  involuntary  ones, 
without  their  own  action;  for  they  have  the  sole  power  of  amend- 
ment,* and,  to  cap  the  climax,  the  fathers  were  unanimous  in  exclud- 
ing the  power  of  coercion  from  the  federal  compact,  and,  out  of 
abundance  of  caution,  guarding  against  it  by  amendment,  all  of  which 
will  be  hereafter  fully  shown.  Buchanan,  Lincoln,  and  others  argued 
that  the  recent  exertion  of  federal  force  against  certain  states  was  not 
coercion  of  states,  but  was  military  coercion  of  persons  banded  to 
oppose  the  federal  laws,  or,  in  other  words,  the  putting  down  of  a 
rebellion.  But  such  views  are  dignified  by  calling  them  weak  soph- 
istry. For  the  said  states  acted  as  bodies  in  making  the  constitution ; 
they  moved  as  such  in  seceding ;  and  they  warred  as  such  in  resisting 
coercion.  And,  in  each  case,  they  respectively  exercised  that  right  of 
command  over  the  citizens  which  results  from  the  social  compact, 
binding  each  to  obey  the  collective  will,  and  which  is  sovereignty 
itself.  On  the  other  hand,  the  federal  functionaries  were  fighting  to 
enforce  an  ordinance  which  the  state  had  originally  ordained,  but  had 
repealed,  and  made  it  treasonable  to  obey ;  namely,  the  ordinance  of 
ratification,  which,  as  to  the  said  state  and  her  citizens,  gave  to  the 
said  constitution,  and  the  resultant  government,  their  only  possible 
validity  and  warrant. 

THE    OSLT    BASIS   OF   COERCION. 

To  coerce  a  state  is  unconstitutional ;  but  it  is  equally  true  that 
the  precedent  of  coercing  states  is  established,  and  that  it  is  defensible 
under  the  law  of  nations.  If  this  be  correct,  all  will  agree  that  such 
ultima  ratio  should  be  placed  at  once  on  its  own  ground,  and  its  limits 

•See  Art.  V. 
13 


1 94  ESS  A  YS—CONTRO  VERSIAL. 

defined,  so  that  our  constitution  may  be  vindicated  and  held  sacred  in 
the  future,  and  the  conscience  of  the  people  of  the  victorious  states  be 
relieved  of  the  charge  of  violating  the  "  supreme  law  of  the  land,"  in 
coercing  the  states  that  ordained  it,  and  killing  their  people  for 
defending  them  ;  for  nothing  can  more  demoralize,  and  finally  demon- 
ize,  the  people,  individually  and  collectively,  than  the  consciousness 
of  having  committed  such  crimes,  the  determined  enjoyment  of  the 
fruits  thereof,  and  the  constant  making  of  false  excuses  to  their 
consciences  and  to  the  world. 

AVhere  the  constitution  does  not  provide  a  treaty  stipulation  or 
conventional  rule,  by  which  to  settle  a  question  arising  among  or 
between  our  states,  the  law  of  nations  is  to  be  resorted  to,  for  the 
constitution  only  displaces  such  law  pro  tanto.  This  law  would,  if 
the  federal  compact  were  annulled,  at  once  govern  all  questions  among 
our  states,  just  as  it  now  does  those  arising  among  the  states  of 
Europe.  The  truth  is,  the  purpose  of  the  federal  compact  was  the 
settlement  of  such  international  questions  as  it  provides  for  and  closes, 
such  questions  having  been,  as  long  as  they  were  open  and  debatable, 
international  ones.  And  it  may  be  well  to  observe  here,  that  the  word 
"  states,"  used  in  the  constitution  to  designate  the  contracting  powers 
that  ratify  and  make  it,  is  used  in  juxtaposition  with,  and  has  the 
identical  meaning  of,  the  word  "  states  "  that  signifies  the  powers  of 
Europe ;  *  and  it  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  Massachusetts,  New  York, 
or  Virginia,  in  making  a  constitution  of  government,  deprived  herself 
of  statehood  or  nationality,  when  she  merely  declared  her  will  which 
remained  in  her,  and  parted  with  no  portion  of  her  own  being ;  and 
when  her  name,  description,  and  essentials  were,  after  associating, 
entirely  unchanged ;  neither  the  constitution  nor  history  warrants  the 
restricted  meaning  vulgarly  given  in  our  country  to  the  word  "  states." 
Accurately  speaking,  it  was  nations  or  states  that  federated,  and 
thereby  formed  our  "community  of  communities,"  or  "republic  of 
republics." 

In  seceding,  the  Southern  commonwealths  exercised  an  indisput- 
able right,  though  they  acted  with  impolicy,  and  erred  in  ignoring  the 
operation  of  international  law.  In  higher  politics— those  of  nations 
in  their  dealings  with  one  another — acts  become  precedents,  and  make 
rules  of  law.  So,  in  the  case  before  us,  the  successful  coercion  of 
states  made  a  precedent,  and  established  a  law.  As  secession  affected 
the  interest  of  the  adhering  states,  questions  arose  for  them  to  con- 
sider ;  and,  treating  the  matter  as  one  in  foro  conscientice,  they  could 
cogently  reason  that  the  case  of  a  seceding  state,  to  make  her  seces- 
sion justifiable  under  the  jus  gentium,  should  contain  the  same  ingre- 
*See  Art.  III.,  sect.  2  ;  Art.  XL,  Amendments. 


SECESSION  AND   COERCION.  195 

dient  that  makes  a  homicide  one  of  self-defence — the  previous  "  retreat 
to  the  wall." 

The  Southern  commonwealths  were  really  fighting  for  constitu- 
tional liberty,  which,  under  the  circumstances,  they  thought  seriously 
imperilled,  and  likely  to  be  preserved  by  secession.  Earl  Russell's 
assertion  was  true,  that  "the  South  fought  for  independence,  the 
North  for  empire."  The  wish  of  the  former  for  constitutional  liberty 
and  independence  was  manifested  by  their  adopting  the  federal  con- 
stitution with  scarcely  a  change.  Secession  was  justifiable  if  there 
was  no  other  mode  of  self-preservation,  or  remedy  for  wrongs ;  for 
self-preservation  was  the  first  law  of  nature  to  states  as  well  as  per- 
sons. But  they  had  not  properly  come  to  this  last  resort,  as  we  shall 
see,  by  noting  the  unpleaded  pleas  of  the  states  that  remained  united — 
pleas  under  the  jus  gentium. 

First.  These  had  the  right  to  assume  that  Providence  intended,  as 
our  fathers  did,  that  all  the  territory  between  British  America  and 
Mexico  should  be  under  one  political  system,  and  they  had  a  right 
(not  under  the  constitution,  which  the  state  voluntarily  made  and 
could  voluntarily  abandon,  but)  under  the  jus  gentium  to  prevent  or 
to  cure  disruption. 

Second.  They  had  the  right  to  object  to  the  establishment  of  a 
contiguous  foreign  state  or  federation,  with  its  necessary  rivalry,  and 
antagonistic  interests  and  policy,  and  the  inevitable  and  ever-recurring 
international  troubles. 

Third.  They  could  complain  that,  in  spite  of  constitutional  engage- 
ments, as  well  as  in  disregard  of  the  respect  due  to  the  fathers,  seces- 
sion should  be  resorted  to  before  exhausting  all  the  remedies  con- 
templated and  provided  for  in  the  constitution,  or  arising  out  of  the 
circumstances ;  especially  as  Congress,  the  Supreme  Court,  and  a 
numerical  majority  of  about  a  million  popular  votes  were  on  the  side 
of  conservatism  against  a  weak  President,  and  could  make  the  remedies 
efficient.  This  alone  was  justification  enough  under  the  j  us  gentium 
for  the  adhering  states  to  coerce  back  the  seceding  ones. 

And  other  pleas  might  have  been  made — as  to  the  territory 
occupied  by  the  new  states,  as  to  forts,  armaments,  public  property, 
etc.,  as  well  as  the  federal  debt.  In  all  these  cases,  precision  of  plead- 
ing and  absolute  sufficiency  were  unnecessary,  for  states  are  to  judge 
for  themselves,  in  the  last  resort,  as  to  subjects  of  complaint  and  cases 
of  war ;  and  our  states,  in  their  federal  constitution,  provided  no  mode 
of  settlement  or  tribunal  for  such  matters,  so  that  the  law  of  nations 
was  the  only  resort  for  rules  of  action. 

And  here  it  is  well  to  observe  that  while  the  seceding  states  acted 
with  impolicy,  and  were  wrong  in  the  respects  and  to  the  degree 


196  ESSAYS— CONTROVERSIAL, 

mentioned,  the  coercing  ones  were  gravely  to  blame  for  the  original 
causes  of  the  trouble — for  constant  and  manifold  aggressions  and  acts 
of  injustice ;  and,  finally,  for  their  non-conciliatory  and  uncompromising 
spirit,  and  their  disinclination  to  resort  to  diplomatic  expedients  under 
the  law  of  nations  to  avoid  so  awful  a  recourse  as  war,  which,  if  it  can 
be  avoided  with  honor  and  integrity,  is  a  most  heinous  crime.  And, 
moreover,  a  party  demanding  justice  before  any  tribunal  must  have 
himself  sought  to  do  justice. 

OUE    SYSTEM    AS    THUS    MODIFIED. 

The  precedent,  then,  may  be  considered  as  established  (not  in  the 
constitutional,  but)  in  the  international  part  of  our  law  and  politics, 
that  all  other  means  of  getting  justice  and  preserving  self-government 
and  statehood  must  be  exhausted  before  secession  is  allowable.  But 
it  is  as  republics  that  states  are  to  be  held  in,  or  coerced  back  to, 
the  Union ;  for  the  great  end  always  in  view  is  the  preservation  of 
constitutional  liberty,  as  established  in  the  states,  under  the  guidance 
of  the  fathers,  and  this  necessitates  absolute  self-government  of  the 
people  as  organized. 

These,  then,  may  be  considered  as  the  cardinal  principles  of  our 
system,  as  it  stands  at  present :  (1)  We  have  states  self -associated  for 
their  self -protection  and  self-government.  (2)  Their  status  is  that  of 
sovereign  political  bodies,  known  to  the  law  of  nations,  and  described 
in  the  constitution,  as  states.  (3)  Being  republics,  or  self-governing 
peoples,  they  must,  according  to  the  law  of  their  nature,  govern  them- 
selves, not  in  any  qualified  sense,  but  absolutely.  (4)  Their  govern- 
ments, state  and  federal,  are  agencies,  and  subordinate  to  them. 

(5)  The  federal  agency  has  the  joint  authority  of  the  states  to  govern 
their  citizens  within  certain  limits,  and  wield  the   coercive  means 
intrusted  to  it.     But  there  is  but  one  rule  of  duty  for  it ;  i.  e.,  the 
constitution,  which  each  member  of  the  agency  *'*  sworn  strictly  to 
observe,  and  which  cannot  be  disregarded  without  perjured  usurpation. 

(6)  The  states  must  remain  in  the  Union  till   the  last  remedy  the 
constitution  affords  against  injustice  and  loss  of  self-government  and 
statehood  has  been  resorted  to.     (7)  When  constitutional  means  are 
exhausted,  or  show  themselves  to  be  vain,  any  means  of  self-preserva- 
tion is  justifiable  to  a  state,  for  it  is  according  to  the  first  law  of 
nature.     (8)  If  secession  be  the  remedy  a  state  finally  determines  on, 
it  affords  the  occasion  for  diplomacy  or  war,  as  among  other  nations. 

TWO    IMPORTANT    IDEAS. 

1.  Suppose  given  states,  then,  to  have  gone  through  the  forms  of 
secession ;  the  adhering  ones,  without  denying  either  the  fact  or  the 


SECESSION  AND  COERCION.  197 

right  of  secession,  may,  for  the  sake  of  the  argument  («'.  e.,  the  ultima 
ratio),  concede  that  the  former  are  out  of  the  Union,  proceed  to  fight 
them  as  foreign  states  amenable  to  the^'w*  gentium,  and  enforce  their 
return  to  the  Union;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  coerced  states 
cannot  invoke,  as  against  such  coercion,  the  constitution  they  have 
abandoned. 

2.  Upon  such  basis,  the  coercion  of  states  is  not  inconsistent  with 
the  federal  compact.  But  the  states  victorious  in  the  recent  war 
claimed  that  the  acts  of  secession  were  null,  and  that  thev  resorted  to 
constitutional  coercion.  By  these  pleas  they  simply  convicted  them- 
selves of  warring  upon  states  in  the  Union,  of  violating  the  constitu- 
tion, and  of  causing  flagrant  usurpation  and  perjury  on  the  part  of 
their  rulers.  Xay,  more,  they  have  done  the  infinite  mischief  of  mak- 
ing these  high  crimes  precedents  for  the  future ;  of  justifying  pleas  of 
necessity  for  arbitrary  acts — the  very  things  constitutions  were  estab- 
lished to  prevent ;  of  introducing  and  vindicating  unlimited  discretion 
and  regal  prerogatives  in  the  federal  agency ;  and,  finally,  of  showing 
the  states  that,  if  aggrieved,  their  only  alternatives  are  submission  or 
war.  Such  were  not  the  ideas  of  the  fathers ! 

As  to  the  right  of  secession,  it  [can]  ...  be  shown,  by  author- 
ities that  no  one  will  venture  to  gainsay,  that  it  is  (not  constitutional 
but)  inherent  and  inalienable ;  that  it  is  absolutely  essential  to,  and 
pro  tanto  identical  with,  freedom ;  and  that  it  was  taken  for  granted, 
as  expressly  stated,  by  the  fathers  as  indispensable  to  preserve  state- 
hood and  liberty.  It  is,  indeed,  a  right  as  absolute  and  indestructible 
as  the  state  itself.  Without  it  sovereignty  cannot  exist,  and  there 
can  be  no  self-preservation  of  the  original  and  only  constituents  of  our 
"  republic  of  republics."  * 

*  Every  American  ought  to  read  Is  Davis  a  Traitor  ?  by  Professor  Bledsoe.  Most 
conclusively  does  it  vindicate  the  right  of  secession,  and  it  forms  the  best  criticism  ever 
written  of  the  constitutional  expositions  of  Story  and  Webster.  With  great  deference, 
however,  I  object  to  his  implication  that  secession  is  a  constitutional  right.  So  with  the 
assumption  of  Mr.  A.  H.  Stephens  and  others,  in  1868,  at  the  White  Sulphur  Springs, 
that  the  right  of  secession  can  be  abandoned.  Self-preservation  is  the  first  law  of  nature 
— most  especially  to  commonwealths;  and  God  designs  a  state  to  secede  if  her  "  defence '" 
and  "welfare,"  which  he  has  charged  her  with  preserving  and  promoting,  require  it. 


MR.   CABLE'S  FREEDMAN'S  CASE  IN  EQUITY. 

BY   CHARLES    GAYAKRE. 

WE  take  notice  of  Mr.  Cable's  Freedman's  Case  in  Equity  published 
in  the  December  Century*  "We  depart  from  the  workshop  of  fiction 
and  caricature,  and  we  enter  the  solemn  temple  of  justice,  where  Mr. 
Cable  appears  as  a  self -constituted  attorney  "  in  the  equity  case  "  which 
he  upholds,  on  behalf  of  the  colored  race,  against  the  systematically 
oppressing,  tyrannically  inclined,  and  perjured  white  race  of  the  whole 
South,  that  continues  to  be  oblivious  of  its  most  solemnly  sworn  obli- 
gations. We  beg  Mr.  Cable  to  keep  in  mind  that  it  is  he  who  attacks, 
and  he  who  puts  us  on  the  defence. 

We  read  Mr.  Cable's  article  three  times,  with  extreme  fatigue,  before 
we  could  have  a  very  clear  conception  of  what  it  meant.  In  every  phrase 
the  words  are  so  unnecessarily  and  densely  crowded,  in  chaotic  confus- 
ion, round  the  sense  intended  to  be  conveyed !  It  reminds  us  of  the 
artichoke,  Avhose  eatable  substance  cannot  be  reached  without- patiently 
removing  the  numerous  prickly  scales  that  envelop  the  fleshy  base 
which  is  sought  after.  It  was  not  an  easy  road  for  us  to  travel,  before 
arriving  at  Mr.  Cable's  conclusions,  and  tasting  on  the  tip  of  our 
tongue  the  panacea  which  he  trumpets  forth  to  cure  our  Southern 
leprosies,  and  guard  us  against  the  social,  political,  moral,  judicial,  and 
legislative  iniquities  that  threaten  us  with  another  bloody  revolution 
and  final  perdition.  What  beating  of  the  bush  it  requires  to  make  Mr. 
Cable's  rabbit  run  out  of  its  shelter  of  briars !  It  is  a  timid  animal. 
It  shows  first  the  tip  of  its  whiskers,  or  of  its  long  ears ;  then  one 
half-concealed  foot,  or  perhaps  a  peep  at  its  tail  may  be  permitted, 
before  it  ventures  out  in  full  view  of  the  hunter  and  dares  his  shot. 
We  much  prefer  the  open  and  bold  position  of  the  anarchist,  the 
socialist,  the  communist,  and  the  nihilist.  They  tell  us  plainly  the 
extent  of  destruction  which  they  meditate.  They  are  levellers ;  Mr. 
Cable,  the  would-be  regenerator,  is  a  mere  plasterer,  or  patcher. 

Mr.  Cable  delights  in  raving  promulgations  of  new  and  startling 
principles,  in  the  utterances  of  tempestuous  expressions  against  his 
supposed  antagonists,  however  respectable  they  may  be  for  intellect 
and  virtue.  But  his  most  violent  denunciations,  in  his  epileptic  fits  of 
periodical  indignation  at  the  condition  of  our  prisons  and  of  the 
*[Vide  Century  Magazine,  Vol.  I.,  1885.] 


MR.    CABLE'S  FREEDMAN'S  CASE  IN  EQUITY.  199 

tortured  negro,  are  generally  accompanied  by  velvety  reticences  to 
escape  from  too  perilous  responsibilities.  He  seems  to  speculate  in 
sensational  attitudes  and  stage  effect,  on  whose  financial  success  he 
confidently  relies.  His  style  is  peculiar ;  it  is  emphatically  his  own 
in  equity,  by  the  right  of  invention.  He  cannot  be  accused  of  servile 
imitation.  It  is  not  the  English  to  which  we  have  been  accustomed, 
and  therefore  we  solicit  his  indulgence  if  we  in  any  way  misunder- 
stand and  misstate  his  premises  and  the  deductions  resulting  from  their 
acceptance.  We  are  not  sure  that  we  can  ascertain  to  our  satisfaction 
the  true  quality  and  nature  of  the  driftwood  which  he  hurries  on  to 
market,  and  which  floats  indistinctly  on  a  foggy  stream  of  illogical 
reasonings  and  more  than  doubtful  statements.  He  evidently  aims 
at  a  new  language  to  enunciate  new  principles.  Be  it  so;  but  we 
object  to  its  obscurity  and  to  the  writer's  chronic  mania  of  entangling 
and  twisting  every  sentence  like  a  cat  playing  with  a  spool  of  cotton. 
It  gives  much  trouble  to  the  reader,  who  is  anxious  to  profit,  without 
too  much  study  and  a  headache,  by  the  discoveries  of  that  learned 
professor  of  ethics  and  Darwinian  evolver  of  equities,  on  which  a  new 
order  of  society  is  to  be  established  under  his  auspices.  Mr.  Cable  is 
a  Louisianian,  and  has  talent.  We  might  be  disposed  to  admire  him  if 
he  understood  the  propriety  of  being  less  incisive,  not  to  say  insult- 
ing, in  his  admonitions,  and  if  he  had  the  modesty  to  assume  a  less 
lofty  tone  of  moral  and  intellectual  superiority  in  his  dictations  over 
a  vast  number  of  his  fellow-citizens,  whom,  in  the  face  of  the  world, 
without  the  slightest  hesitation  and  without  the  least  sign  of  regret, 
he  proclaims  as  guilty  of  the  basest  malignancy,  the  most  systematic 
tyranny,  and  the  most  drivelling  imbecility.  As  to  imbecility,  we 
personally  plead  guilty ;  for  we  confess  that,  while  one  page  of  Addi- 
son's  or  of  Edmund  Burke's  refreshes  and  brightens  our  intellect,  the 
complicated  sentences  of  Mr»  Cable  obscure  and  fatigue  it  to  the 
utmost.  If  we  were,  as  a  professional  critic,  to  qualify  the  style  of 
this  author,  we  would  call  it  Labyrinthine.  It  imposes  too  much 
groping  and  wandering  before  discovering  the  bull  in  his  hiding-place 
and  taking  him  by  the  horns.  We  think,  however,  that  we  have  at 
last,  after  considerable  labor,  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  clear  view  of 
the  four-footed  beast  in  all  its  proportions. 

Mr.  Cable  begins  his  article  with  this  assertion :  "  The  greatest 
problem  before  the  American  people  to-day  is,  as  it  has  been  for  a 
hundred  years,  the  presence  among  us  of  the  negro."  We  fully  agree 
with  him  on  this  point,  and  we  do  not  hesitate  to  add :  That  the  prob- 
lem "resulting  now  from  the  presence  of  the  freedman  entails  on  us  of 
the  white  race  a  question  more  difficult  to  solve  satisfactorily,  than 
the  one  which  formerly  proceeded  from  his  presence  as  a  slave. 


200  .ESSA  YS—CONTRO  VERSIAL. 

We  further  aver,  with  the  deepest  conviction,  that  the  existence  in 
the  same  country  of  two  races,  as  different  as  day  and  night  in  their 
physical  and  spiritual  endowments,  and  apparently  incapable  of  fusing 
into  a  homogeneous  whole,  is  the  most  dreadful  calamity  that  ever 
could  befall  a  community.  History  tells  us  the  terrible  struggles  that 
have  always  resulted  from  the  meeting  of  even  two  white  races  on  the 
same  soil,  notwithstanding  the  practicability,  in  the  course  of  centuries, 
of  their  gradually  forming  a  unit  by  intermarriage.  All  the  various 
records  of  mankind  contain  a  long  recital  of  the  total  annihilation  or 
expulsion  of  races  by  races.  In  many  parts  of  civilized  Europe,  at 
this  day,  where  different  white  races  have  been  inhabiting  the  same 
territory  for  ages,  they  still  entertain  toward  one  another  a  deadly 
enmity,  which  fatally  breaks  out  like  the  lava  of  a  volcano,  whenever 
the  opportunity  presents  itself. 

In  England  it  was  a  disgrace,  during  a  long  time,  even  for  a  poor 
Norman  knight  to  marry  a  rich  Saxon  princess.  At  least,  so  thought 
the  Norman  dames.  For  them  she  was  the  mulattress  of  the  epoch, 
although  as  white  as  new-fallen  snow.  In  their  eye  such  a  mesalliance 
could  be  palliated  only  by  the  necessity  of  complying  with  the  exi- 
gencies of  worldly  policy  and  ambition,  if  not  prompted  by  sordid 
interest.  But  Normans  and  Saxons  could  fuse,  and  they  did  fuse  at 
last,  although  the  latter  had  been  considered  by  the  former  as  hardly 
better  than  swine. 

Another  striking  instance  is  what  happened  in  Spain.  The  ancient 
population  of  that  country  and  the  invading  Goths  soon  merged  into 
an  harmonious  nationality.  The  two  races  had  entertained  no  in- 
stinctive repugnance  for  each  other.  Next  came  the  swarthy  Arabs 
and  the  darker-hued  Moors,  very  distinct  in  color  from  the  descendants 
of  the  Goths.  What  followed  ?  Assimilation !  Fusion  !  No.  Eight 
hundred  years  of  bloody  conflicts,  until  one  of  the  races  exterminated 
the  other.  What  is  now  taking  place  in  Algeria  ?  Are  the  Arabs 
becoming  French,  or  the  French  turning  Arabs?  Or  are  the  two 
races  breeding  hybrids  ?  No.  It  is  not  long  since  an  Arab  chief  said 
to  a  French  officer,  his  friend  :  "  If  a  Frenchman  and  an  Arab  were 
boiled  down  together,  so  that  there  remained  only  their  bones,  those 
bones  would  instantly  separate."  Therefore,  the  fact  that  the  popula- 
tion of  our  State  is  about  equally  divided  between  the  Caucasian  race 
and  the  African  must  be  considered  as  presenting  a  question  of  an 
awful  nature,  if  examined  by  the  light  of  history  and  of  undeniable 
precedents.  Surely  it  is  a  question  to  be  anxiously  studied  with  the 
calm  reason,  the  profound  knowledge,  the  sagacious  foresight,  of  a 
statesman,  and  is  not  to  be  superficially  treated  with  the  unpardon- 
able flippancy  of  a  sentimental  aspirant  to  notoriety,  the  arrogant 


MR.    CABLE'S  FREEDMAN'S  CASE  IN  EQUITY.  201 

superciliousness  of  an  improvised  pedagogue,  the  exorbitant  conceit  of 
a  self-worshipping  censor  of  public  and  private  morals,  or  with  the  . 
raving  imprecations,  the  howlings,  and  the  maniac  gesticulations  of 
an  Orlando  Furioso. 

Let  us  now  glance  rapidly  at  the  probable  future  of  the  freedman 
in  Louisiana,  and  only  glance,  because  we  are  to  confine  ourselves 
within  the  limits  assigned  to  this  essay.  That  future  will  depend  on 
the  relative  position  of  inferiority,  equality,  or  superiority  which  the 
black  race  is  to  occupy  toward  the  white  one — three  things  as  powerful 
to  settle  this  question  as  the  three  mythological  sisters  who  of  yore 
wove  the  destinies  of  man. 

Should  the  black  race  not  have  been  favored  by  nature  with  the 
same  letters  patent  of  nobility  which  it  has  granted  to  the  Avhite,  it 
will  be  vain  to  attempt  to  remove  the  inferiority  by  artificial  means. 
Should  this  race  inferiority  be  the  fiat  of  Providence,  the  blacks, 
although  they  should  be  put  in  possession  of  all  the  political,  social, 
and  civil  rights  which  they  may  desire,  although  given,  as  equally  as 
to  the  whites,  the  same  encouragement  and  advantages  for  education 
and  for  the  acquisition  of  wealth  in  any  department  of  industry,  will 
not  keep  pace  with  their  Caucasian  competitors.  In  that  case,  they 
will  sink  to  their  proper  level  and  become  the  mudsills  of  the  social 
edifice.  It  will  be,  however,  an  additional  reason  for  the  superior  race 
to  assist  the  inferior  with  increasing  kindness  and  enlightened  humanity. 
But,  in  spite  of  this  protection,  the  negro,  in  all  probability,  will  grad- 
ually disappear.  As  to  the  hybrids,  those  in  whom  the  line  of  color 
no  longer  exists  apparently  will  continue,  as  they  do  daily,  to  creep 
into  the  Caucasian  ranks,  where  their  traces  will  soon  be  lost  sight  of 
and  forever  obliterated.  It  must  be  kept  in  mind,  in  connection  with 
this  subject,  that  the  negro  hates  the  hybrid ;  and  the  hybrid,  despis- 
ing the  negro,  is  more  averse  than  the  white  man  to  associate  with  him, 
except  for  political  purposes.  As  to  the  female  quadroons,  there  are 
few  of  them  that  would  not  belabor  with  a  broomstick  the  leveller  and 
trader  in  new  principles  who  should  propose  to  them  to  marry  a 
negro.  Thereby  hangs  a  tale,  which  we  offer  to  the  consideration  of 
Mr.  Cable. 

We  cannot  admit  the  possibility  of  the  future  superiority  and 
domination  of  the  black  race  over  the  white  in  Louisiana,  and  the 
consequent  extinction  of  the  latter ;  it  is  too  absurd.  But  let  us  sup- 
pose that  both  races  become  equal  in  energy,  knowledge,  wealth,  and 
number.  Should  they  keep  systematically  apart  and  form  two  dis- 
tinct camps,  with  no  social  intercourse  between  them,  it  is  fearful  to 
think  of  the  inevitable  consequences  in  the  struggle  that  would  ensue 
for  power  and  government,  and  from  other  causes. 


202  ESS  A  YS—CONTRO  VERSIAL. 

Probably  this  is  the  state  of  things  which  Mr.  Cable  anticipates,  as 
he  believes  in  the  equality  of  the  races.  For  the  purpose  of  averting 
those  anticipated  evils,  we  should  be  happy  to  join  him  heartily,  in 
honest,  sincere,  and  patriotic  efforts  to  provide  for  the  best  possible 
means  to  increase  the  kind  relations  now  existing  between  the  two 
races,  and  secure  their  common  welfare  by  the  reciprocal  exercise  of 
lasting  amity,  as  much  as  this  may  be  within  the  reach  of  human 
power,  outside  of  miscegenation,  which  we  abhor.  We  are  convinced 
that  those  relations  are  as  harmonious  as  they  could  be  under  the  con- 
ditions which  the  past  has  created  for  us,  but  the  way  to  prolong  their 
existence  indefinitely  is  not  by  inflammatory  and  false  descriptions  of 
the  present  intolerable  oppression  of  the  negroes  in  the  South — an 
oppression  which,  in  Mr.  Cable's  opinion,  would  justify  them,  if  they 
had  Caucasian  energy,  to  inundate  the  country  with  blood  by  cutting 
the  throats  of  the  white  devils  by  whom  they  are  tortured.  We  could 
hardly  trust  in  the  correctness  of  our  eyesight  when  we  read  his 
furious  denunciations.  .  .  .  Let  Mr.  Cable  be  judged  by  the  evidence 
furnished  by  himself. 

In  support  of  the  semi-cloudy  position  occupied  by  Mr.  Cable,  I 
transcribe  the  following  lines  from  his  December  effusion :  "  We  hear 
much  about  race  instinct.  The  most  of  it,  I  fear,  is  pure  twaddle.  It 
may  be  there  is  such  a  thing.  We  do  not  know.  It  is  not  proved. 
And  even  if  it  were  established,  it  would  not  be  necessarily  a  proper 
moral  guide.  We  subordinate  instinct  to  society's  best  interests  as 
apprehended  in  the  light  of  reason."  If  we  have  misinterpreted  Mr. 
Cable's  oracular  dictum,  we  beg  to  be  corrected. 


MR.  CABLE,  THE  «  NEGROPHILIST." 


THERE  are  probably  some  of  Mr.  Cable's  readers  who  have  been 
suddenly  startled  by  his  Freedman's  Case  in  Equity*  but  to  the  many 
who  have  read  carefully  his  previous  works,  his  "  negrophilism  "  was 
so  apparent  that  he  who  ran  might  read.  Throughout  his  writings 
crime  ceases  to  be  crime  when  committed  by  a  negro,  mulatto,  or 
quadroon.  Mme.  John,  in  Tite  Poulette,  Mme.  Delphine  and  her 
daughter  Olive,  even  poor  Clemence,  the  calas  vendor,  victim  of  the 
cowardly  Grandissimes,  as  well  as  every  character  of  "  off-white  "  hue, 
including  those  others  already  mentioned,  are  drawn  with  a  loving 
touch.  In  dealing  with  these  Mr.  Cable's  peculiar  gift  of  spoiling  a 
lovable  and  admirable  character  by  some  ignoble  or,  at  best,  ridiculous 
trait,  as  shown  in  his  delineations  of  the  Creoles,  is  metamorphosed 
into  an  entirely  opposite  peculiarity.  Xo  ignorance  so  dense,  no  guilt 
so  great,  but  that  Mr.  Cable  finds  excuses  and  palliating  circumstances, 
nay,  even  absolute  virtue  in  them.  Read  by  the  light  of  this  last  tur- 
bid and  violent  attack  on  the  whole  South,  Mr.  Cable's  Freedman's 
Case  in  Equity  must  appear  as  the  apotheosis  of  his  literary  labors, 
the  end  to  which  all  his  writings  pointed.  If  any  one  questions  this, 
hear  Mr.  Cable  in  the  Grandissimes :  "  A  slavery  which  no  Legislature 
can  abolish,  the  slavery  of  caste."  And  again  :  "  The  quadroons  want 
a  great  deal  more  than  free  papers  can  secure  them.  Emancipation 
before  the  law,  though  it  may  be  a  right  which  man  has  no  right  to 
withhold,  is  to  them  little  more  than  a  mockery  until  they  achieve 
emancipation  in  the  minds  and  goodwill  of  the  ruling  class." 

In  The  Freedman's  Case  in  Equity  he  makes  the  startling  discovery 
that  three  terms  of  a  problem  being  given,  the  result  will  not  be  a 
positive  quantity,  as  mathematicians  have  so  long  ignorantly  affirmed, 
but  one  of  three,  if  not  one  the  other,  or  a  little  of  both.  Having 
arrived  at  this  admirable  conclusion,  it  need  not  astonish  the  reader 
to  find  that  after  endeavoring  so  industriously  to  belabor  the  unjust 
prejudices  of  the  South,  Mr.  Cable  should  be  guilty  of  such  damaging 
admissions  as  the  following,  taken  at  random  from  his  various  contri- 
butions to  the  Century  : 

"  Millions  of  an  inferior  race." 

*  [Vide  Century  Magazine,  Vol.  I.,  1885.] 


204  ESSA  YS—  CONTRO  VERSIAL. 

"  He  (the  negro)  was  brought  to  our  shores  a  naked,  brutish 
savage." 

"  Moreover,  twenty-eight  thousand  slaves  and  free  blacks  hampered 
progress  by  sheer  dead  weight." 

"  Their  stupid  and   slovenly  eye-service  made  the  introduction  of 
labor-saving  machines  a  farce." 

"  The  unintelligent,  uneconomical  black  was  unavailable  in  manu- 
facture." 

"  The  free  people  of  color  were  unaspiring,  corrupt,  and  feeble." 

And  it  is  for  this  people — descendants  of  the  "  most  debased  races 
on  the  globe,"  who,  according  to  Mr.  Cable,  learned  all  they  knew  of 
good  under  the  lash — that  Mr.  Cable  demands  equality,  not  only  before 
the  law,  but  in  all  the  social  intercourse  of  the  schoolroom  and  places 
of  public  resort,  with  its  natural  sequence,  miscegenation.  Mr.  Cable 
pretends  to  laugh  at  this  absurd  vision,  and,  while  endeavoring  to  tear 
down  the  barriers  of  caste,  raises  such  puny  ramparts  as  the  gauge  of 
decorum,  cleanliness,  and  moral  character  of  the  public  schools. 

Mr.  Cable  is  affected  with  color-blindness,  and  everything  is  to  him 
not  couleur  de  rose,  but  cowleur  d  'ebene.  He  cannot  distinguish  between 
the  refined  and  educated  descendants  of  a  virtuous  Indian  princess 
and  the  horde  of  promiscuous  parentage,  ranging  often  in  the  same 
family  through  all  the  shades  of  black,  brown,  and  yellow.  Indeed, 
his  virtuous  heart  is  overpowered  at  the  thought  of  the  social  equality 
that  exists  in  our  public  schools,  and  he  finds  no  better  remedy  for  the 
evil  than  to  introduce  the  negro  of  all  shades  into  them,  which,  like  a 
chemical,  will  send  each  social  class  to  itself. 

It  has  been  asserted  that,  when  urged  to  further  research  on  the 
subjects  he  handled,  Mr.  Cable  replied,  in  substance,  that  research  would 
destroy  his  originality.  The  originality — viz.,  absurdity  of  ignorance 
— is  not  one  of  Mr.  Cable's  discoveries,  and  if  he  confined  that  originality 
to  the  jargon  which  he  persists  in  affirming  Creoles  use  in  preference 
to  their  native  tongue,  we  might  laugh  and  forgive,  but  when,  in  his 
wilful  or  simulated  ignorance,  he  throws  such  firebrands  as  those  con- 
tained in  his  Freedman's  Case  in  Equity,  such  ignorance  degenerates 
into  criminality. 

Mr.  Cable's  sympathetic  feelings  are  deeply  moved  by  the  heart- 
rending case  of  a  brutal  assault  on  a  colored  brother.  Even  if  Mr. 
Cable's  account  is  not  garbled,  does  he  live  in  such  blissful  ignorance 
of  facts  as  never  to  have  heard  of  like  outrages  on  white  men  com- 
mitted by  lawless  persons  ? 

When  Mr.  Cable  assures  the  North — for  we  cannot  suppose  he 
could  expect  such  statements  to  pass  current  in  the  South — that 
negroes  are  not  allowed  to  ride  in  our  cars,  even  when  able  and  will- 


MR.    CABLE,    THE  "  NEGROPHILIST."  ^05 

ing  to  pay  for  first-class  accommodations,  did  he  not  fear  contradiction 
from  Northern  visitors  to  our  Exposition,  who  must  see  them  sharing 
in  every  way  the  same  accommodations  furnished  the  whites,  provided 
their  purses  permit  it  ? 

But  public  conveyances  are  not  the  only  subjects  in  which  Mr. 
Cable  strays  from  the  regions  of  blissful  ignorance  to  those  of  down- 
right misrepresentation.  Pathetically  supposing  a  change  of  position 
in  the  two  races,  without,  however,  a  change  of  skin,  Mr.  Cable  asks 
the  white  man  how  he  *Tould  relish  being  always  tried  by  a  black 
jury ;  and,  having  supposed  this,  triumphantly  declares  that  he  has 
proven  his  assertion  that  negroes  are  never  tried  except  by  juries  of 
their  masters.  Mr.  Cable  goes  further,  and  asserts  that  negroes  are 
never  put  on  juries.  Can  a  misstatement  for  a  purpose  go  further  ? 
Mr.  Cable  cannot  ignore  the  fact,  that  in  his  native  city  and  State  the 
number  of  colored  jurors  are  one-third  in  the  former  and  one-half  in 
the  latter — not  merely  those  of  mixed  blood  and  average  intellect,  but 
the  poorest  and  most  ignorant  class ;  nor  the  other  well-known  fact, 
that  negro  prisoners  challenge  their  colored  brother  far  more  than  the 
white  criminals.  And  all  this,  and  much  more,  Mr.  Cable  says  to 
arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  if  our  penitentiaries  are  filled  to  over- 
flowing with  the  vicious  of  the  once  servile  race,  it  is  no  proof  of  their 
guilt,  but  simply  of  the  white  man's  injustice  and  love  of  gain. 

Mr.  Cable  is  right  in  one  particular — the  colored  people  are  becom- 
ing a  great  social  problem,  which  it  becomes  the  South  to  consider 
wisely ;  but  when  he  tries  to  make  us  believe  that  the  negro  before 
emancipation  was  a  far  more  dangerous  character,  he  fails  completely. 
To  the  eternal  honor  of  the  slaves  let  it  be  said,  that  age,  childhood, 
and  defenceless  womanhood  were  left  to  their  keeping  by  soldier  hus- 
bands, fathers,  and  sons,  and  that  trust  was  seldom  betrayed.  But 
now  Avhat  have  twenty  years  of  freedom  brought  about  (  "  Grafted 
into  the  citizenship  of  the  most  intelligent  nation  in  the  world" 
(Cable),  they  have  lost  those  better  qualities  that  were  their  crown  of 
glory,  and  in  their  stead  has  sprung  up  a  rich  harvest  of  crimes  almost 
unknown  among  them  before. 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE  MODERN  LANGUAGES. 

BY   JOHN   B.    FICKLEN. 
Audi  Alteram  Pattern. 

ON  the  editorial  page  of  a  prominent  journal,  there  lately*  appeared 
an  interesting  and  well-written  article  called  A  Plea  for  Greek.  If 
the  writer  had  contented  himself  with  pronouncing  a  eulogy  on  the 
Greek  language  and  literature,  no  one,  perhaps,  would  have  been  bold 
enough  to  differ  with  him ;  but,  directly  or  indirectly,  the  article  casts 
a  slur  on  the  so-called  utilitarian  studies — French,  German,  and  pre- 
sumably English — which  the  writer  thinks  are  crowding  out  the 
classics.  That  these  studies,  together  with  the  "  malodorous  "  sciences, 
have  been  pushing  the  classics  to  the  wall  is  an  unquestionable  fact ; 
but  whether  this  movement  is  a  slavish  pandering  to  the  utilitarian 
time-spirit  may  well  be  questioned. 

It  is  unnecessary  in  this  essay  to  discuss  the  importance  of  Latin 
as  compared  with  Greek  in  a  college  curriculum.  The  writer  of  A 
Plea  for  Greek,  however,  will  find  it  almost  impossible  to  persuade 
scholars  that  "  Greek  is  a  language  that  is  more  easily  acquired  than 
Latin."  As  a  student  and  teacher  of  both  languages,  the  present 
writer  enters  a  protest. 

Waiving  this  point,  however,  the  question  presents  itself,  whether 
the  student  who  rejects  Latin  and  Greek  in  favor  even  of  modern 
languages  (the  defence  of  the  sciences  may  be  left  to  the  scientists 
themselves)  has  necessarily  set  up  for  himself  a  utilitarian  standard ; 
whether  he  is  neglecting  the  broad  field  of  culture  in  order  to  provide 
himself  with  "  bread  and  butter."  This  question  opens  two  fields  of 
inquiry :  First,  the  value  of  classical  as  compared  with  modern  litera- 
ture ;  and,  secondly,  the  methods  of  instruction  that  are  now  pursued 
by  our  leading  universities  in  the  teaching  of  these  two  literatures. 

As  to  the  first  field  of  inquiry,  the  reader  may  be  referred  to  the 
great  controversy  which  arose  in  the  seventeenth  century,  and  which 
was  discussed  by  Fontenelle,  Perrault,  Sir  William  Temple,  and 
Bentley.  Temple  maintained  that  ancient  literature  was  superior,  but 
he  passed  over  without  mention  the  names  of  Shakespeare,  Milton, 
and  Newton  among  the  moderns.  Even  if  a  stronger  advocate  than 

*  [1892.] 


A  PLEA  FOR   THE  MODERN  LANGUAGES.  207 

Temple  now  arises  to  champion  his  side,  such  an  advocate  must  not 
fail  to  take  account  of  the  glorious  literature  that  has  been  produced 
since  the  seventeenth  century  in  England,  France,  Germany,  and 
other  countries. 

The  writer  of  A  Plea  for  Greek  has  quoted  Macaulay's  glorious 
tribute  to  the  lasting  beauty  of  classical  literature ;  the  present  writer 
thinks  it  only  fair  to  quote  another  passage  on  the  same  subject  from 
the  same  author's  essay  on  Bacon.  Macaulay  is  speaking  about  the 
boasted  classical  acquirements  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Elizabeth :  "  In 
the  time  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Edward  VI.  a  person  who  did  not  read 
Greek  and  Latin  could  read  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing.  ...  It 
was  therefore  absolutely  necessary  that  a  woman  should  be  uneducated 
or  classically  educated.  .  .  .  This  is  no  longer  the  case.  All  polit- 
ical and  religious  controversy  is  now  conducted  in  the  modern  lan- 
guages. The  ancient  tongues  are  used  only  in  comments  on  the  ancient 
writers.  The  great  productions  of  Athenian  and  Roman  genius  are, 
indeed,  still  what  they  were.  But,  though  their  positive  value  is  un- 
changed, their  relative  value,  when  compared  with  the  whole  mass  of 
mental  wealth  possessed  by  mankind,  has  been  constantly  falling. 
They  were  the  intellectual  all  of  our  ancestors.  They  are  but  a  part 
of  our  treasures.  Over  what  tragedy  could  Lady  Jane  Grey  have 
wept,  over  what  comedy  could  she  have  smiled,  if  the  ancient  drama- 
tists had  not  been  in  her  library  ?  A  modern  reader  can  make  shift 
without  (Edipus  and  Medea  while  he  possesses  Othello  and  Hamlet. 
We  are  guilty,  we  hope,  of  no  irreverence  toward  those  great  nations 
to  which  the  human  race  owes  art,  science,  taste,  civil  and  intellectual 
freedom,  when  we  say  that  the  stock  bequeathed  by  them  to  us  has 
been  so  carefully  improved  that  the  accumulated  interest  now  exceeds 
the  principal.  We  believe  that  the  books  which  have  been  written  in 
the  languages  of  Western  Europe  during  the  last  two  hundred  and 
fifty  years — translations  from  the  ancient  languages,  of  course,  included 
— are  of  greater  value  than  all  the  books  which  at  the  beginning  of 
that  period  were  extant  in  the  world.  When,  therefore,  we  compare 
the  acquirements  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  with  those  of  an  accomplished 
young  woman  of  our  own  time,  we  have  no  hesitation  in  awarding  the 
superiority  to  the  latter." 

Again,  in  his  essay  on  Byron,  Macaulay  declares :  "  It  requires  no 
very  profound  examination  to  discover  that  the  Greek  dramas,  often 
admirable  as  compositions,  are,  as  exhibitions  of  human  character  and 
human  life,  far  inferior  to  English  plays  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth." 

"  In  point  of  composition  and  adaptation  to  the  stage,"  says  Dr. 
Price,  a  life-long  student  of  Shakespeare  and  the  Greek  dramatists, 
"  the  Othello  is  superior  to  any  other  drama,  ancient  or  modern." 


208  ESSA  YS—CONTRO  VERSIAL. 

As  to  the  historians,  it  may  be  conceded  to  the  writer  of  A  Plea  for 
Greek,  that  Herodotus  was  a  more  charming  raconteur  than  any 
modern  historian,  though,  in  the  words  of  Macaulay,  "  he  has  not 
written  a  good  history ;  he  is,  from  the  first  to  the  last  chapter,  an 
inventor."  But  the  moderns  are  so  far  superior  in  the  philosophy  of 
history  that  Macaulay  is  unwilling  to  award  the  ancient  historians  as 
a  body  the  palm  of  general  superiority ;  he  leaves  the  question  open. 

As  to  Homer  and  the  Greek  orators,  it  will  be  well  for  us  always 
to  remember  the  words  of  that  profound  Greek  scholar  and  critic, 
Thomas  de  Quincey,  "  who  was  an  unqualified  asserter  of  the  superi- 
ority of  modern  to  ancient  literature."  "It  is,"  he  said,  "a  pitiable 
spectacle  to  a  man  of  sense  and  feeling,  who  happens  to  be  really 
familiar  with  the  golden  treasures  of  his  own  ancestral  literature, 
a  spectacle  which  moves  alternate  scorn  and  sorrow,  to  see  young 
people  squandering  their  time  and  painful  study  upon  writers  not  fit 
to  unloose  the  shoes'  latchets  of  many  among  our  own  compatriots ; 
making  painful  and  remote  voyages  after  the  drossy  refuse,  when 
the  pure  gold  lies  neglected  at  their  feet.  We  engage  to  produce 
many  scores  of  passages  from  Chaucer,  not  exceeding  fifty  to  eighty 
lines,  which  contain  more  of  picturesque  simplicity,  more  tenderness, 
more  fidelity  to  nature,  more  felicity  of  sentiment,  more  animation  of 
narrative,  and  more  truth  of  character,  than  can  be  matched  in  all  the 
Iliad  or  the  Odyssey.  To  our  Jeremy  Taylor,  to  our  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  there  is  no  approach  made  in  the  Greek  eloquence.  For  the 
intellectual  qualities  of  eloquence,  in  fineness  of  understanding,  in 
depth,  and  in  large  compass  of  thought,  Burke  far  surpasses  any 
orator,  ancient  or  modern."  "  Burke,"  declared  Macaulay,  "  in  apti- 
tude of  comprehension  and  richness  of  imagination  was  superior  to 
other  orators  both  ancient  and  modern." 

The  great  critics  have  been  freely  quoted  because  some  of  the 
advocates  of  classical  studies  are  too  prone  to  belittle  the  achieve- 
ments of  modern  times,  and  suggest  in  their  arguments  that  their 
devotion  to  the  classics  has  left  them  no  time  adequately  to  appreciate 
the  glory  of  modern  literature.  The  writer  of  A  Plea  for  Greek, 
however,  is  not  guilty  of  this  fault ;  he  maintains  only  that  in  many 
departments — oratory,  lyric,  poetry,  the  drama — modern  literature 
has  not  surpassed  the  ancient  or  classical.  Let  us  concede  that  his 
claim  is  a  just  one.  The  question  then  rises :  Is  there  time  in  our 
modern  life  for  the  study  of  the  classics?  We  are  aware  that  Mr. 
James  Kussell  Lowell  said  truly  that  the  boundaries  of  languages 
should  not  deter  the  true  student  from  reading  the  best  in  every 
language ;  a  great  work  is  great  in  whatever  language  it  is  written. 
But  we  repeat  the  question  :  Is  there  time  in  our  modern  high  schools 


A   PLEA  FOR   THE  MODERN  LANGUAGES.  209 

and  colleges  for  any  but  special  students  to  spend  six  or  seven  years 
in  acquiring  enough  Greek  or  Latin  to  appreciate  in  the  original  the 
works  of  classical  authors  ?  Let  us  confine  the  question  to  America. 

However  much  some  may  regret  the  fact,  our  civilization  is  cer- 
tainly a  practical  one.  The  life  of  the  average  American  citizen  is 
full  of  activity ;  America  has  not  yet  developed  a  leisure  class.  Still 
there  is  a  great  body  of  students  who  are  seeking  culture  with  no  par- 
ticular intention  of  turning  it  into  a  money-making  machine.  They 
expect  to  become  preachers,  professors,  lawyers,  doctors,  editors,  engi- 
neers, merchants,  etc.  Those  who  intend  to  adopt  the  first  two  pro- 
fessions have  generally  in  the  past  studied  Latin  and  Greek,  and  they 
will  continue  to  do  the  same  in  the  future.  They  are  the  special 
students,  and  for  them  the  colleges  will  always  make  provision.  Into 
this  class,  to  a  limited  extent,  come  the  lawyers,  for  whose  profession 
a  working  knowledge  of  Latin,  gained  by  a  two  or  three  years'  course, 
may  be  considered  obligatory. 

As  to  the  other  students,  those  who  intend  to  become  scientists 
have  before  them  a  vast  field  in  the  realm  of  science,  for  which  a  life- 
time of  diligent  labor  seems  all  too  brief.  Even  so  in  other  professions, 
the  mastery  of  a  wide  range  of  knowledge  is  the  only  passport  to  emi- 
nence, and  in  the  active  practice  of  his  vocation  the  professional  man 
can  hardly  hope  for  any  great  leisure  to  devote  himself  to  classical 
culture. 

The  great  mass  of  our  students,  then,  are  to  be  prepared  for  the 
active  practice  of  a  profession.  What  is  the  best  means  of  accomplish- 
ing this  ?  Certainly  not  by  giving  them  merely  a  technical  or  utilita- 
rian education.  Our  best  colleges  have  recognized  that  specialization 
should  be  preceded  by  general  culture ;  but  not  all  agree  as  to  the 
character  of  this  general  culture. 

It  is  conceded,  however,  by  the  great  majority,  that  among  the 
necessary  studies  of  a  college  curriculum  are  mathematics,  chemistry, 
physics,  astronomy,  psychology,  biology,  and  geology.  To  these  scien- 
tific courses  the  student  must  add  history,  ancient  and  modern,  and 
the  study  of  the  development  of  his  own  language.  Though  a  great 
deal  of  work  has  been  thus  mapped  out,  he  may  still  have  time  for 
more.  But  has  he  yet  touched  those  works  in  American  literature 
which  constitute  its  chief  glory  ?  Has  he  investigated  the  great  master- 
pieces of  English,  French,  and  German  literature,  which,  though  they 
may  not  be  superior,  are  admitted  to  be  unsurpassed  by  the  classic 
models  ? 

But,  it  may  still  be  claimed,  there  is  time  for  all  this,  and  also  for 
the  thorough  course  of  Latin  and  Greek  which  shall  unlock  the  treas- 
ures of  the  past.  Education,  it  is  argued,  is  chiefly  inspiration  and 
14 


210  ESSA  YS—CONTRO  VERSIAL. 

discipline;  in  the  college  and  university  we  must  not  expect  to  do 
more  than  discipline  the  mind,  and  give  the  student  a  taste  for  what 
is  best  in  literature,  leaving  him  to  pursue  his  work  when  he  has 
launched  out  into  life.  Yet  few  of  us  realize  how  quickly  our  active 
lives  are  passing  until  we  begin  to  question  ourselves  on  the  tasks  we 
set  before  us  on  leaving  college.  Most  of  us  find  that  a  lifetime  is  all 
too  short  to  spend  upon  the  master-works  of  modern  literature,  espe- 
cially if  we  wish  in  some  degree  to  keep  abreast  of  the  progress  in 
science. 

It  may  be  urged,  however,  that  the  quality,  not  the  quantity,  of 
reading  is  the  all-important  desideratum.  This  we  readily  admit  to  be 
a  safe  rule,  for  nothing  is  more  dangerous  than  the  omnivorous  con- 
sumption of  printed  matter.  But  still  we  hold  that  a  wide  range  of 
reading  in  various  departments  of  knowledge  is  absolutely  necessary 
if  the  student  would  obtain  that  philosophic  breadth  of  view  which  is 
the  only  cure  for  bigotry.  "  Beware  of  the  one-book  man !  "  "  Yes," 
it  has  been  well  answered,  "  beware  of  him,  because  he  is  sure  to  be 
narrow-minded  and  bigoted." 

But  the  second  division  of  our  subject  presses  upon  us :  What  is 
the  relative  discipline  to  be  obtained  from  Latin  and  Greek  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  modern  languages  on  the  other  ?  Of  course,  this  ques- 
tion cannot  be  settled  by  the  mere  dictum  of  one  person.  But  the 
present  writer,  who  has  taught  both  the  classics  and  English,  firmly 
believes  that  the  discipline  acquired  in  the  critical  interpretation  of 
Shakespeare  and  Burke  is  not  inferior  to  that  acquired  in  a  similar 
study  of  Sophocles  and  Cicero.  Surely  the  faculty  of  interpretation, 
or  even  divination,  may  be  exercised  on  some  passages  of  Shakespeare 
as  thoroughly  as  on  the  choruses  of  Sophocles.  Moreover,  German, 
which  is  now  a  necessary  instrument  in  the  hands  of  every  scholar, 
may  be  utilized  as  a  means  of  comparison ;  translations  from  German 
into  English,  under  a  skilful  teacher,  will  illustrate  the  power  and 
beauty  of  both  languages. 

At  least,  those  who  maintain  the  superiority  of  the  classical  lan- 
guages as  a  means  of  discipline  should  examine  the  methods  now 
pursued  in  the  teaching  of  French,  German,  and  English.  The  very 
methods  so  long  consecrated  to  the  teaching  of  Latin  and  Greek  have 
been  adopted  for  the  modern  languages,  and  have  created  a  new  era. 

Till  within  the  last  twenty  years,  the  teaching  of  English,  at  least 
in  our  Southern  colleges  and  universities,  was  what  it  seems  to  have 
been  at  Oxford  in  De  Quincey's  time — a  dreary  farce.  Our  students, 
therefore,  were  compelled  to  depend  upon  the  classic  culture  and 
discipline.  So  far  was  this  infatuation  carried,  that  many  students, 
when  they  were  graduated,  went  out  into  life  conversant  with  Demos- 


A  PLEA  FOR   TEE  MODERN  LANGUAGES.  211 

thenes,  but  totally  ignorant  of  Burke ;  they  wrote  Latin  better  than 
they  did  their  mother  tongue.  The  present  writer  was  educated  at  a 
great  Southern  university  when  the  course  in  English  was  a  reproach 
among  all  the  wise  scholars  ;  and  he  had  the  pleasure  of  witnessing 
the  dawn  of  a  new  era,  when  Thomas  R.  Price,  at  Randolph  Macon 
College,  became  the  great  pioneer  in  the  scientific  and  aesthetic  teach- 
ing of  English.  The  teachers  of  French  and  German  have  hastened 
to  fall  in  line,  and  to  demand  a  higher  place  for  their  specialties  in 
the  college  curriculum. 

The  "  moderns  "  admit  their  debt  to  the  classical  studies,  but  they 
maintain  that  it  was  in  the  necessity  of  things  that  they  contracted 
this  debt.  Their  claim  now  is  that  the  new  order  of  things  must 
receive  recognition  ;  that,  even  admitting  the  classical  literature  to  be 
the  equivalent  in  value  of  the  modern,  the  present  methods  of  treat- 
ing the  modern  languages  place  these  languages  in  a  new  position. 
Under  the  old  regime  a  full  allowance  of  tune  was  naturally  demanded 
for  the  classics — even  to  the  manifest  neglect  of  the  mother  tongue. 
With  the  progress  of  the  sciences  and  with  the  improved  methods  of 
teaching,  this  time  is  no  longer  at  the  disposal  of  the  classics;  it 
should  be  consecrated  to  those  noble  vehicles  of  modern  thought,  the 
languages  of  England,  Germany,  and  France,  and  to  that  portion  -of 
modern  literature  which  has  been  unsurpassed  in  the  world's  history. 

As  to  the  discipline,  the  "  moderns  "  lay  stress  upon  the  dictum  of 
James  Russell  Lowell,  "  that  master  of  style  to  whom  language  courte- 
sied  as  to  its  natural  master."  In  one  of  his  last  essays  he  declares : 
"  I  value  Shakespeare  above  all  for  this :  that  for  those  who  know  no 
language  but  their  own,  there  is  as  much  intellectual  training  to  be  got 
from  the  study  of  his  works  as  from  those  of  any,  I  had  almost  said  of 
all,  great  authors  of  antiquity." 

He  who  defends  the  study  of  the  sciences,  moreover,  is  justified  in 
protesting  strongly  when  his  defence  is  dubbed  "bread-and-butter 
theory  "  or  a  pandering  to  the  utilitarian. 

Science,  like  anything  else,  may  be  taught  by  shallow  and  superficial 
methods ;  but  if  we  demand  the  "  enlightened  methods,"  there  should 
be  no  danger  of  a  utilitarian  bias.  It  is  now  admitted  that  every  true 
scientist,  as  a  requisite  to  success,  must  be  possessed  of  imagination  in 
a  high  degree.  He  is  ever  reclaiming  new  territory  from  the  realm 
of  the  undiscovered.  Such  a  teacher  will  guide  the  student  beyond 
secondary  causes  back  to  the  Deity  himself.  If  this  high  office  per- 
mits him  to  stoop  to  the  demands  of  the  practical,  it  is  to  alleviate 
physical  conditions  and  raise  his  followers  to  higher  planes  of  thought 
and  life.  Ko  Stoic,  telling  his  disciples  that  all  misfortunes  must  be 
borne  with  calm  fortitude,  can  be  compared  in  greatness  with  the 


212  ESSAYS— CONTROVERSIAL.   , 

modern  philosopher  who  uses  science  as  the  handmaid  of  right  living. 
Modern  science,  rightly  studied,  walks  hand  in  hand  with  philosophy. 
Its  broad  reach  is  exemplified  in  the  immortal  and  reverent  words  of 
Kepler,  as  he  swept  the  heavens  with  his  telescope :  "  I  read  God's 
thoughts  after  him." 

To  say,  then,  that  those  who  advocate  the  modern  languages  and 
science  in  preference  to  the  classics  are  pandering  to  the  utilitarian, 
rather  than  to  the  ideal,  is  to  ignore  the  noble  philosophy  taught  by  our 
modern  authors  and  the  aid  this  philosophy  has  drawn  from  science. 

But  it  is  claimed  that  any  true  understanding  of  modern  literature 
is  dependent  upon  a  knowledge  of  the  classics ;  for  our  writers,  espe- 
cially the  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century,  use  freely  classical  allusions 
and  classical  terms.  As  to  the  allusions,  can  it  be  for  a  moment  main- 
tained that  translations  of  the  classics  will  not  furnish  all  the  expla- 
nations necessary  for  the  study  of  modern  literature  ?  The  apprecia- 
tion of  our  literature  shown  by  many  a  cultivated  woman  among  us, 
who  has  never  studied  either  Latin  or  Greek,  can  be  cited  in  evidence. 
Surely  the  ordinary  student  may  be  excused  for  contenting  him- 
self with  translations,  when  it  is  remembered  that  the  acquisition  of 
enough  Greek  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  dramas  of  Sophocles  and  the 
philosophic  history  of  Thucydides  is  a  matter  of  some  seven  years' 
study  (such  is  Macaulay's  estimate),  and  that  so  long  a  devotion 
to  Greek  must  interfere  with  his  study  of  either  the  sciences  or  the 
modern  languages. 

As  to  the  use  of  classical  terminology,  the  present  writer  joins 
De  Quincey  in  his  admiration  of  the  simplicity  of  old  Dan  Chaucer. 
However  happy  our  modern  poets  may  have  been  in  the  use  of 
learned  terms,  it  may  be  well  maintained  their  true  greatness  rests, 
and  has  always  rested,  upon  the  noble  simplicity  with  which  they 
have  interpreted  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  human  nature. 

To  the  general  student,  therefore,  this  advice  might  well  be  given : 
As  you  must  choose  between  the  ancient  and  the  modern  languages, 
choose  rather  to  saturate  your  mind  with  the  masterpieces  of  the 
modern  world,  remembering  always  that,  though  you  may  not  be  able 
to  study  the  language  of  the  ancients,  you  are  not  wholly  debarred 
from  appreciating  their  works.  William  Cullen  Bryant  is  no  mean 
interpreter  of  Homer,  and  Jowett  no  mean  interpreter  of  Plato.  The 
greatest  master  of  thought  and  expression  that  England  ever  pro- 
duced contented  himself  with  translations,  and  knew  "  small  Latin 
and  less  Greek." 


PART    III. 

ESSAYS. 

SECTION  II.    MIXED. 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD.* 

BY    JOHN   J.    AUDUBON. 

[Joex  JAMES  AUDUBON  was  born  near  New  Orleans,  May  4,  1780.  At  an  early  age 
he  was  sent  to  France  to  be  educated.  In  1800— on  a  farm  near  Philadelphia,  given  to 
him  by  his  father— he  began  that  series  of  drawings  of  birds  imperishably  connected 
with  his  name.  From  1811  to  1826,  a  wanderer  from  one  State  to  another  as  his  scien- 
tific needs  drew  him,  he  explored  the  Southern  forests  for  their  ornithological  treasures. 
In  1826  he  went  to  England  with  his  sketches,  hoping  to  find  in  that  country  the  means 
to  publish  the  Birds  of  America.  Being  successful,  the  initial  volume  of  that  work 
appeared  in  1830,  the  fifth  and  last  in  1839.  In  1846  he  began  the  publication  of  a 
companion  work  on  the  Quadrupeds  of  America,  the  last  volume  of  which  did  not 
appear  until  after  his  death.  Europe  was,  through  her  highest  names,  generous  to  his 
appeal  for  recognition.  Of  his  work  Cuvier  said:  "  C'est  le  plus  magnifique  monument 
que  L'Art  ait  encore  eleve  a  la  Nature."  Audubon  died  near  New  York,  January  27, 
1851.] 

WHERE  is  the  person  who,  on  seeing  this  lovely  little  creature 
moving  on  humming  winglets  through  the  air,  suspended  as  if  by 
magic  in  it,  flitting  from  one  flower  to  another,  with  motions  as  grace- 
ful as  they  are  light  and  airy,  pursuing  its  course  over  our  extensive 
continent,  and  yielding  new  delights  wherever  it  is  seen ;  where  is  the 
person,  I  ask  of  you,  kind  reader,  who,  on  observing  this  glittering 
fragment  of  the  rainbow,  would  not  pause,  admire,  and  instantly  turn 
his  mind  with  reverence  toward  the  Almighty  Creator,  the  wonders 
of  whose  hand  we  at  every  step  discover,  and  of  whose  sublime  con- 
ceptions we  everywhere  observe  the  manifestations  in  his  admirable 
system  of  creation  ?  There  breathes  not  such  a  person ;  so  kindly 
have  we  all  been  blessed  with  that  intuitive  and  noble  feeling — 
admiration ! 

Xo  sooner  has  the  returning  sun  again  introduced  the  vernal 
season,  and  caused  millions  of  plants  to  expand  their  leaves  and 
blossoms  to  his  genial  beams,  than  the  little  humming-bird  is  seen 
advancing  on  fairy  wings,  carefully  visiting  every  opening  flower-cup, 
and,  like  a  curious  florist,  removing  from  each  the  injurious  insects 
that  otherwise  would  ere  long  cause  their  beauteous  petals  to  droop 
and  decay.  Poised  in  the  air,  it  is  observed  peeping  cautiously,  and 
with  sparkling  eye,  into  their  innermost  recesses,  whilst  the  ethereal 
motions  of  its  pinions,  so  rapid  and  so  light,  appear  to  fan  and  cool 
the  flower,  without  injuring  its  fragile  texture,  and  produce  a  delight- 

*  [Birds  of  America.] 


210  ESSAYS— MIXED. 

ful  murmuring  sound,  well  adapted  for  lulling  the  insects  to  repose. 
Then  is  the  moment  for  the  humming-bird  to  secure  them.  Its  long, 
delicate  bill  enters  the  cup  of  the  flower,  and  the  protruded  double- 
tubed  tongue,  delicately  sensible,  and  imbued  with  a  glutinous  saliva, 
touches  each  insect  in  succession,  and  draws  it  from  its  lurking  place, 
to  be  instantly  swallowed.  All  this  is  done  in  a  moment,  and  the 
bird,  as  it  leaves  the  flower,  sips  so  small  a  portion  of  its  liquid  honey, 
that  the  theft,  we  may  suppose,  is  looked  upon  with  a  grateful  feeling 
by  the  flower,  which  is  thus  kindly  relieved  from  the  attacks  of  her 
destroyers. 

The  prairies,  the  fields,  the  orchards  and  gardens,  nay,  the  deepest 
shades  of  the  forests,  are  all  visited  in  their  turn,  and  everywhere  the 
little  bird  meets  with  pleasure  and  with  food.  Its  gorgeous  throat  in 
beauty  and  brilliancy  baffles  all  competition.  Now  it  glows  with  a 
fiery  hue,  and  again  it  is  changed  to  the  deepest  velvety  black.  The 
upper  parts  of  its  delicate  body  are  of  resplendent  changing  green ; 
and  it  throws  itself  through  the  air  with  a  swiftness  and  vivacity 
hardly  conceivable.  It  moves  from  one  flower  to  another  like  a  gleam 
of  light,  upwards,  downwards,  to  the  right,  and  to  the  left.  In  this 
manner  it  searches  the  extreme  northern  portions  of  our  country, 
following  with  great  precaution  the  advances  of  the  season,  and  re- 
treats with  equal  care  at  the  approach  of  autumn. 

I  wish  it  were  in  my  poAver  at  this  moment  to  impart  to  you,  kind 
reader,  the  pleasures  which  I  have  felt  whilst  watching  the  move- 
ments, and  viewing  the  manifestation  of  feelings  displayed  by  a  single 
pair  of  these  most  favorite  little  creatures,  when  engaged  in  the 
demonstration  of  their  love  to  each  other : — how  the  male  swells  his 
plumage  and  throat,  and,  dancing  on  the  wing,  whirls  around  the 
delicate  female ;  how  quickly  he  dives  towards  a  flower,  and  returns 
with  a  loaded  bill,  which  he  offers  to  her  to  whom  alone  he  feels 
desirous  of  being  united ;  how  full  of  ecstasy  he  seems  to  be  when  his 
caresses  are  kindly  received ;  how  his  little  wings  fan  her,  as  they  fan 
the  flowers,  and  he  transfers  to  her  bill  the  insect  and  the  honey 
which  he  has  procured  with  a  view  to  please  her ;  how  these  attentions 
are  received  with  apparent  satisfaction ;  how,  soon  after,  the  blissful 
compact  is  sealed ;  how,  then,  the  courage  and  care  of  the  male  are 
redoubled  ;  how  he  even  dares  to  give  chase  to  the  tyrant  fly-catcher, 
hurries  the  blue-bird  and  the  martin  to  their  boxes ;  and  how,  on  sound- 
ing pinions,  he  joyously  returns  to  the  side  of  his  lovely  mate.  Header, 
all  these  proofs  of  the  sincerity,  fidelity,  and  courage  with  which  the 
male  assures  his  mate  of  the  care  he  will  take  of  her  while  sitting  on 
her  nest,  may  be  seen,  and  have  been  seen,  but  cannot  be  portrayed  or 
described. 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD.  217 

Could  you,  kind  reader,  cast  a  momentary  glance  on  the  nest  of 
the  humming-bird,  and  see,  as  I  have  seen,  the  newly  hatched  pair 
of  young,  little  larger  than  humble-bees,  naked,  blind,  and  so  feeble  as 
scarcely  to  be  able  to  raise  their  little  bill  to  receive  food  from  the 
parents ;  and  could  you  see  those  parents,  full  of  anxiety  and  fear, 
passing  and  repassing  within  a  few  inches  of  your  face,  alighting  on  a 
twig  not  more  than  a  yard  from  your  body,  waiting  the  result  of  your 
unwelcome  visit  in  a  state  of  the  utmost  despair, — you  could  not  fail 
to  be  impressed  with  the  deepest  pangs  which  parental  affection  feels 
on  the  unexpected  death  of  a  cherished  child.  Then  how  pleasing  is 
it,  on  your  leaving  the  spot,  to  see  the  returning  hope  of  the  parents, 
when,  after  examining  the  nest,  they  find  their  nurslings  untouched ! 
You  might  then  judge  how  pleasing  it  is  to  a  mother  of  another  kind, 
to  hear  the  physician  who  has  attended  her  sick  child  assure  her  that 
the  crisis  is  over,  and  that  her  babe  is  saved.  These  are  the  scenes 
best  fitted  to  enable  us  to  partake  of  sorrow  and  joy,  and  to  determine 
every  one  who  views  them  to  make  it  his  study  to  contribute  to  the 
happiness  of  others,  and  to  refrain  from  wantonly  or  maliciously 
giving  them  pain. 


THE  WOOD   THRUSH.* 

BY   JOHN   J.    AUDUBON. 

THIS  bird  is  my  greatest  favorite  of  the  feathered  tribes  of  our 
woods.  To  it  I  owe  much.  How  often  has  it  revived  my  drooping 
spirits,  when  I  have  listened  to  its  wild  notes  in  the  forest,  after  passing  a 
restless  night  in  my  slender  shed,  so  feebly  secured  against  the  violence 
of  the  storm,  as  to  show  me  the  futility  of  my  best  efforts  to  rekindle 
my  little  lire,  whose  uncertain  and  vacillating  light  had  gradually  died 
away  under  the  destructive  weight  of  the  dense  torrents  of  rain  that 
seemed  to  involve  the  heavens  and  the  earth  in  one  mass  of  fearful 
murkiness,  save  when  the  red  streaks  of  the  flashing  thunderbolt  burst 
on  the  dazzled  eye,  and,  glancing  along  the  huge  trunk  of  the  stateliest 
and  noblest  tree  in  my  immediate  neighborhood,  were  instantly  fol- 
lowed by  an  uproar  of  crackling,  crashing,  and  deafening  sounds,  roll- 
ing their  volumes  in  tumultuous  eddies  far  and  near,  as  if  to  silence  the 
very  breathings  of  the  unformed  thought !  How  often,  after  such  a 
night,  when  far  from  my  dear  home,  and  deprived  of  the  presence  of 
those  nearest  to  my  heart,  wearied,  hungry,  drenched,  and  so  lonely 
and  desolate  as  almost  to  question  myself  why  I  was  thus  situated ; 
when  I  have  seen  the  fruits  of  my  labors  on  the  eve  of  being  destroyed, 
as  the  water,  collected  into  a  stream,  rushed  through  my  little  camp, 
and  forced  me  to  stand  erect,  shivering  in  a  cold  fit  like  that  of  a  severe 
ague ;  when  I  have  been  obliged  to  wait  with  the  patience  of  a  mar- 
tyr for  the  return  of  day,  silently  counting  over  the  years  of  my  youth, 
doubting  perhaps  if  ever  again  I  should  return  to  my  home  and 
embrace  my  family! — how  often,  as  the  first  glimpses  of  morning 
gleamed  doubtfully  amongst  the  dusky  masses  of  the  forest-trees,  has 
there  come  upon  my  ear,  thrilling  along  the  sensitive  cords  which 
connect  that  organ  with  the  heart,  the  delightful  music  of  this  har- 
binger of  day ! — and  how  fervently,  on  such  occasions,  have  I  blessed 
the  Being  who  formed  the  wood  thrush,  and  placed  it  in  those  soli- 
tary forests,  as  if  to  console  me  amidst  my  privations,  to  cheer  my 
depressed  mind,  and  to  make  me  feel,  as  I  did,  that  man  never  should 
despair,  Avhatever  may  be  his  situation,  as  he  can  never  be  certain  that 
aid  and  deliverance  are  not  at  hand. 

The  wood  thrush  seldom  commits  a  mistake,  after  such  a  storm  as 
*  [Birds  of  America.] 


THE   WOOD   THRUSH.  219 

I  have  attempted  to  describe ;  for  no  sooner  are  its  sweet  notes  heard 
than  the  heavens  gradually  clear,  the  bright,  refracted  light  rises  in 
gladdening  rays  from  beneath  the  distant  horizon,  the  effulgent 
beams  increase  in  their  intensity,  and  the  great  orb  of  dav  at  length 
bursts  on  the  sight.  The  gray  vapour  that  floats  along  the  ground  is 
quickly  dissipated,  the  world  smiles  at  the  happy  change,  and  the 
woods  are  soon  heard  to  echo  the  joyous  thanks  of  their  many  song- 
sters. At  that  moment  all  fears  vanish,  giving  place  to  an  inspiriting 
hope.  The  hunter  prepares  to  leave  his  camp.  He  listens  to  the 
wood  thrush,  while  he  thinks  of  the  course  which  he  ought  to  pursue, 
and  as  the  bird  approaches  to  peep  at  him,  and  learn  somewhat  his 
intentions,  he  raises  his  mind  toward  the  Supreme  Disposer  of  events. 
Seldom,  indeed,  have  I  heard  the  song  of  this  thrush  without  feeling 
all  that  tranquillity  of  mind  to  which  the  secluded  situation  in  which 
it  delights  is  so  favorable.  The  thickest  and  darkest  woods  always 
appear  to  please  it  best.  The  borders  of  murmuring  streamlets,  over- 
shadowed by  the  dense  foliage  of  the  lofty  trees  growing  on  the  gen- 
tle declivities,  amidst  which  the  sunbeams  seldom  penetrate,  are  its 
favorite  resorts.  There  it  is  that  the  musical  powers  of  this  hermit  of 
the  woods  must  be  heard  to  be  fully  appreciated  and  enjoyed. 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD.* 

BY   JOHN    J.    AUDUBON. 

IT  is  where  the  great  magnolia  shoots  up  its  majestic  trunk, 
crowned  with  evergreen  leaves,  and  decorated  with  a  thousand  beau- 
tiful flowers  that  perfume  the  air  around ;  where  the  forests  and  fields 
are  adorned  with  blossoms  of  every  hue;  where  the  golden  orange 
ornaments  the  gardens  and  the  groves;  where  bignonias  of  various 
kinds  interlace  their  climbing  stems  around  the  white-flowered  stu- 
artia,  and  mounting  still  higher,  cover  the  summits  of  the  lofty  trees 
around,  accompanied  with  innumerable  vines  that  here  and  there  fes- 
toon the  dense  foliage  of  the  magnificent  woods,  lending  to  the  vernal 
breeze  a  slight  portion  of  the  perfume  of  their  clustered  flowers ;  where 
a  genial  warmth  seldom  forsakes  the  atmosphere ;  where  berries  and 
fruits  of  all  descriptions  are  met  with  at  every  step — in  a  word,  it  is 
where  Nature  seems  to  have  paused  as  she  passed  over  the  earth,  and 
opening  her  stores  to  have  strewed  with  unsparing  hand  the  diversified 
seeds  from  which  have  sprung  all  the  beautiful  and  splendid  forms 
which  I  should  in  vain  attempt  to  describe,  that  the  mocking-bird 
should  have  fixed  its  abode,  there  only  that  its  wondrous  song  should 
be  heard. 

But  where  is  that  favored  land  ?  It  is  in  that  great  continent  to 
whose  distant  shores  Europe  has  sent  forth  her  adventurous  sons,  to 
wrest  for  themselves  a  habitation  from  the  wild  inhabitants  of  the 
forest,  and  to  convert  the  neglected  soil  into  fields  of  exuberant  fertil- 
ity. It  is,  reader,  in  Louisiana  that  these  bounties  of  Nature  are  in  the 
greatest  perfection.  It  is  there  that  you  should  listen  to  the  love  song 
of  the1  mocking-bird,  as  I  at  this  moment  do.  See  how  he  flies  round 
his  mate,  with  motions  as  light  as  those  of  the  butterfly !  His  tail  is 
widely  expanded,  he  mounts  in  the  air  to  a  small  distance,  describes  a 
circle,  and,  again  alighting,  approaches  his  beloved  one,  his  eyes  gleam- 
ing with  delight,  for  she  has  already  promised  to  be  his,  and  his  only. 
His  beautiful  wings  are  gently  raised,  he  bows  to  his  love,  and,  again 
bouncing  upwards,  opens  his  bill  and  pours  forth  his  melody,  full  of 
exultation  at  the  conquest  which  he  has  made. 

They  are  not  the  soft  sounds  of  the  flute  or  the  hautboy  that  I 
hear,  but  the  sweeter  notes  of  Nature's  own  music.  The  mellowness 

[*  Birds  of  America.] 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD.  221 

of  the  song,  the  varied  modulations  and  gradations,  the  extent  of  its 
compass,  the  great  brilliancy  of  execution,  are  unrivalled.  There  is 
probably  no  bird  in  the  world  that  possesses  all  the  musical  qualifica- 
tions of  this  king  of  song,  who  has  derived  all  from  Nature's  self. 
Yes,  reader,  all ! 

No  sooner  has  he  again  alighted,  and  the  conjugal  contract  has 
been  sealed,  than,  as  if  his  breast  was  about  to  be  rent  with  delight, 
he  again  pours  forth  his  notes  with  more  softness  and  richness  than 
before.  He  now  soars  higher,  glancing  around  with  a  vigilant  eye,  to 
assure  himself  that  none  has  witnessed  his  bliss.  When  these  love 
scenes  are  over,  he  dances  through  the  air,  full  of  animation  and  delight, 
and,  as  if  to  convince  his  lovely  mate  that  to  enrich  her  hopes  he  has 
much  more  love  in  store,  he  that  moment  begins  anew,  and  imitates 
all  the  notes  which  Nature  has  imparted  to  the  other  songsters  of  the 

grove. 

******** 

The  musical  powers  of  this  bird  have  often  been  taken  notice  of  by 
European  naturalists,  and  persons  who  find  pleasure  in  listening  to 
the  song  of  different  birds  whilst  in  confinement  or  at  large.  Some  of 
these  persons  have  described  the  notes  of  the  nightingale  as  occasion- 
ally fully  equal  to  those  of  our  bird.  I  have  frequently  heard  both 
species,  in  confinement  and  in  the  wild  state,  and  without  prejudice 
have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  the  notes  of  the  European  philomel 
equal  to  those  of  a  soubrette  of  taste,  which,  could  she  study  under  a 
Mozart,  might  perhaps  in  time  become  very  interesting  in  her  way. 
But  to  compare  her  essays  to  the  finished  talent  of  the  mocking-bird 
is,  in  my  opinion,  quite  absurd. 


THE   RELATION  BETWEEN  THE  LITERATURES   OF 
GREECE  AND  HINDOSTAK 

BY    ALEXANDER    DIMITEY. 

[ALEXANDER  DIMITRY  was  born  in  New  Orleans,  February  7,  1805.  Soon  after  he 
had  taken  his  B.  A.  degree  at  Georgetown  College,  he  became  the  first  English  editor  of 
the  New  Orleans  Bee,  a  paper  published  up  to  that  time  exclusively  in  French.  In  1834 
he  was  appointed  clerk  in  the  General  Post  Office  Department  at  Washington  City.  In 
1842  he  returned  to  Louisiana  and  organized  the  free  school  system  in  that  State,  and 
was  for  about  three  years  State  Superintendent  of  Public  Education.  In  1856  he  was 
appointed  translator  in  the  State  Department  at  Washington,  and  three  years  later 
accepted  the  United  States  Ministership  to  Costa  Rica  and  Nicaragua.  In  1861  he 
resigned  this  position  to  embrace  the  Southern  cause,  and  under  the  Confederate  Govern- 
ment he  was  Chief  of  the  Finance  Bureau  in  the  Post  Office  Department.  In  1868  he 
was  made  Assistant  Superintendent  of.  the  New  Orleans  public  schools,  and  in  1870  he 
was  elected  Professor  of  Ancient  Languages  in  the  Christian  Brothers'  College  at  Pass 
Christian,  Miss.  In  the  prime  of  life  he  had  prepared  an  elaborate  History  of  English 
Names,  the  manuscript  of  which  was  destroyed  by  a  fire  at  the  St.  Charles  Institute  of 
St.  Charles  Parish,  La.,  of  which  he  was  at  the  time  principal.  Shortly  after  his  death, 
which  occurred  Januai-y  30,  1883,  his  friend  James  R.  Randall,  the  Southern  poet,  said  : 
"  This  country  has  given  birth  to  few  men  who  could  compare  with  Professor  Dimitry  in 
talent,  scholarship,  and  accomplishments.  He  was  a  linguist,  an  orator,  and  a  master  of 
composition.  Men  with  not  the  hundredth  part  of  his  ability  have  risen  in  public  life 
and  made  something  of  a  display.  There  was  something  absent  from  the  Professor's 
nature  that  meaner  creatures  possess  and  utilize,  and  so  his  grand  Grecian  form  and 
intellect  pass  away  almost  without  a  sign,  so  far  as  this  world  is  concerned ;  but  I  think 
he  must,  in  another 'realm,  hold  high  converse  with  Socrates,  and  hear  from  the  lips  of 
Homer  the  undying  song  of  Troy."] 

THE  people  of  Hindostan,  a  mild,  pliant,  and  poetic  race,  charac- 
terized by  deep  sympathies  with  mankind,  enacted  an  important  part 
in  the  drama  of  Eastern  civilization.  Whatever  may  have  been  its 
relations  with  Egypt  and  Greece,  with  Persia  and  China — whether  it 
have  modified  their  ideas,  undergone  their  influences,  or  benefited  by 
an  exchange  of  thought  between  those  regions  and  *the  Hindostanic 
peninsula — it  is  now  admitted  that  the  earliest  sketchings  of  civilization 
are  traced  in  the  Sanscrit  books.  A  century  has  scarcely  passed  by 
since  the  labors  of  Anquetil,  enlarged  by  those  of  Jones  and  Cole- 
brooke,  have  revealed  them  to  the  world ;  and  their  study  brings  a 
sense  of  astonishment  and  awe  over  the  mind  as  it  explores  their  mys- 
teries. Fancy  wanders  amid  those  subterranean  temples,  which  the 
waters  of  the  Ganges  threaten  with  hourly  invasion — the  gigantic 
monuments  of  days  gone  by,  of  which  the  living  generation  know 


ALEXANDER    DIMITRY. 


THE  LITERATURES  OF  GREECE  AND  HINDOSTAN.          223 

neither  the  uses  nor  names — monuments  reared  without  order,  economy, 
or  rule,  lofty  creations  of  art,  groaning  under  a  wild  luxuriance  of 
artistic  ornaments — marble  riddles  which  we  cannot  read,  bristling 
with  forests  of  columns  and  hosts  of  statues,  which  at  once  recall  the 
idea  of  Egypt  and  Persia,  Greece  and  Mexico.  Of  the  architecture  of 
that  race,  the  literature,  in  its  inconceivably  vast  range,  is  no  unlit 
counterpart.  Epic  or  tragedy;  ode  and  apologue;  sophisms  of  the 
school  and  dreams  of  the  imagination ;  the  richest  manifestations  of 
human  intelligence  and  the  most  drivelling  systems  of  moral  philoso- 
phy ;  the  doctrines  of  materialism,  in  its  naked  forms,  or  its  disguise 
under  the  many-hued  mantle  of  pantheism;  the  tenets  of  a  high- 
reaching  materialism  or  the  elevation  of  the  senses  into  a  system  of 
worship ;  the  application  of  logic  to  the  purposes  of  practical  life  and 
to  the  criticism  of  the  arts,  a  style  of  narrative  composition  as  terse, 
lyrical,  and  sententious  as  that  of  the  Bible  itself — all  these  charac- 
teristics are  wildly,  incoherently  blended  together,  and  constitute  a 
strangely  magnificent  body  of  literature,  probably  older  than  that  of 
Greece.  There  is  no  form  of  the  human  mind,  as  it  revealed  itself  in 
antiquity,  but  what  is  bound  in  the  mysterious  chains  of  the  hundred 
thousand  distichs  of  the  3faha-baratta,  which  is  the  Iliad  of  Hindo- 
stan,  or  in  the  epic  grandeur  of  the  Ramayana,  which  bears  a  singular 
affinity  to  the  Odyssey  of  Homer. 

This  poetry  of  Oriental  antiquity,  is  toned  to  an  astonishing  grand- 
eur of  ideas  and  a  vigorous  power  of  creation.  Luxuriant  in  its  forms 
and  hues,  sparkling  with  the  very  sunshine  of  the  rich  climes  in  which 
it  grew,  it  unfolds  its  beauties  with  all  the  splendor  and  magnificence 
of  the  early  Edens  of  the  world,  and  like  their  deep  and  mysterious 
rivers,  wheels  its  broad  tide  into  the  shoreless  and  fathomless  oceans 
of  immensity.  Its  character  is  one  of  wonderful  variety — colossal  in 
its  proportions,  yet  minute  in  its  details.  The  mind  is  called  not  un- 
frequently  to  dwell  on  most  singularly  striking  contrasts.  On  one 
page,  we  linger  on  a  picture  of  a  perishing  world  beside  that  of  a 
smiling  infant.  The  poet,  on  one  page,  sports  with  a  delicate  flower 
bending  its  petals  under  the  weight  of  a  single  dew-drop ;  whilst  on 
the  next  he  marshals  all  the  Hindoo  gods  to  battle  in  the  illimitable 
fields  of  space.  Whilst  legions  of  spirits  of  darkness  and  hosts  of 
monstrous  giants  attempt  to  quench  the  glories  of  the  sun,  and  to 
devour  the  very  earth  itself,  a  child  comes  forth  with  the  magic 
flower  of  the  lotus  in  his  hand,  and  the  flower  rebukes  the  attempt 
of  the  dark  spirits,  and  subdues  the  mad  endeavors  of  the  brood  of 
Titans.  This  world  of  poetical  illusion  and  witchcraft  is  unfolded 
with  matchless  ingenuity  by  the  Sanscrit  poet.  In  these  battles  of 
the  mid-air,  in  which  heaven  and  earth  are  witnesses  of  the  giant 


224  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

fights,  he  arms  his  agents  with  varied  instruments  of  destruction — a 
thousand  spirits  dealing  round,  in  their  aerial  course,  lightning  and 
death  ;  cohorts  of  elephants,  mounted  by  the  followers  of  Ormuzd,  the 
spirit  of  light,  crushing  down  the  legions  of  Arimanhes,  the  spirit  of 
evil.  Here,  the  sense  of  terror,  wound  up  to  its  highest  expression ; 
there,  the  language  of  feeling  and  love,  appealing  in  the  gentlest  tones. 
Here,  deformity  in  its  most  ideal  hideousness ;  there,  beauty  wrapped 
up  in  the  gorgeousness  of  divinity  itself — everywhere  a  spirit  of 
religious  symbolism,  a  train  of  wildest  allegories,  under  which  the 
mind  of  modern  days  cowers  in  vain  efforts  to  unravel  the  mystic 
web !  The  Maha3>aratta,  or,  as  it  means,  the  Greek  war,  set  forth 
in  that  monument  of  modern  erudition,  the  Asiatic  Researches  of 
Calcutta,  relates  the  strife  of  the  gods  with  the  heroes  and  giants  of 
earth,  that  common  tradition  which  we  find  running  through  the 
poetical  origins  of  all  the  nations  of  antiquity ;  while  the  Ramayana^ 
or  the  exploits  of  the  Hero,  of  a  more  human  character  in  its  concep- 
tion and  execution,  though  still  tinged  with  symbolism,  sings  of  Rama, 
the  great  Hindoo  Hero,  the  conqueror  of  the  southern  portion  of  the 
peninsula,  whose  exploits,  glory,  exile,  and  woes  the  poet  rehearses  in 
a  strain  not  unworthy  of  Homer's  harp. 

Still  in  this  wonderful  literature  of  Hindostan,  the  scholar  looks 
in  vain  for  the  severe  yet  elegant  proportions  of  Grecian  art ;  though 
he  is  compelled  to  acknowledge  the  very  close  relationship  which  evi- 
dently exists  between  them.  If  he  attempt  to  trace  up  the  historical 
causes  of  this  intellectual  kindred,  the  mind  is  suddenly  merged  in 
rayless  obscurity,  and  left  to  the  questionable  help  of  suppositions, 
which,  however  ingenious,  lack  the  ground  of  well-established  facts. 
From  this  period  of  Brahminic  civilization,  for  the  want  of  records, 
we  pass  suddenly,  without  any  gradual  transitions  or  blending  of 
ideas,  to  the  era  of  Grecian  polity.  There,  like  a  radiant  star,  glitters 
the  golden  link  which  binds  Asia  to  Europe — the  East  to  the  West — 
the  newer  eras  of  society  to  the  primitive  ages  of  the  world.  The 
traditions  of  the  relation  which  must  have  existed  between  India  and 
the  Pelasgic  tribes,  which  first  settled  Greece,  are  now  irrevocably 
lost ;  the  traces  of  their  journey  ings  have  been  buried  under  the  accu- 
mulated dust  of  centuries ;  but  we  possess  the  story  of  our  affiliation 
with  ancient  Greece  and  of  our  connection  Avith  her  splendid  system 
of  civilization.  Clearly  Oriental  in  her  national  origin,  and  half  so  in 
her  geographical  position,  Greece  lighted  the  torch  of  that  civilization 
which  through  many  a  trial  has  passed  from  Europe  to  our  shores. 
Though  ignorant  of  what  she  may  have  owed  earlier  nations,  we 
know  the  amount  of  our  indebtedness  to  her.  However  largely  she 
may  have  borrowed  from  her  predecessors,  still  her  special  genius 


THE  LITERATURES  OF  GREECE  AND  HINDOSTAN.  2?5 

remains  undiminished,  a  genius  worthy  of  the  admiration  of  yet 
unreckoned  centuries.  Her  literature  is  one  of  beauty,  of  power,  and 
of  harmony,  resting  upon  an  equilibrium  of  all  the  faculties  of  the 
intellect,  the  secrets  of  which  were  exclusively  her  own — not  to  be 
found  in  the  symbols  of  Egypt  and  of  India,  in  the  brutal  majesty 
of  the  Persian  and  Arabic  schools,  or  in  even  the  high  inspiration  of 
the  Hebrew  books.  The  temple  of  pure  art  she  opened,  and  for  the 
first  time  opened,  to  the  true  worship  of  intellect.  Beauty  throws  her 
halo  over  its  creations ;  the  excesses  of  Oriental  luxuriance  are  sub- 
dued ;  the  narration  of  facts,  the  reverses  of  states,  the  triumphs  of 
nations,  put  on  a  lucid  and  logical  form ;  the  passions  have  their  own 
expression  of  eloquence  and  speak  the  language,  feelings,  and  thoughts 
of  humanity ;  the  precision  of  history  is  divorced  from  the  enthusiasm 
and  the  vagueness  of  lyrical  composition,  in  which  the  early  annals  of 
nations  were  once  couched.  The  forms  of  intellect,  of  that  which  had 
been  abstract  intellect,  assume  a  completeness  and  a  purity  hitherto 
unknown.  Passing  over  the  first  period,  barely  known  through  the 
fragments  that  have  come  to  us,  of  Linus,  Orpheus,  Musseus,  and  other 
priestly  bards,  we  find  this  great  development  of  mind  coeval  with 
the  advent  of  old  Homer.  Homer  is,  to  this  day,  the  sovereign  mas- 
ter of  epic  poetry,  and  no  hand  has  been  able  as  yet  to  discrown  this 
monarch  of  song  in  his  intellectual  reign  of  thirty  centuries !  He 
was  the  first  representative  of  the  freedom  of  intellect,  upspringing  in 
energy  and  in  power,  after  having  bowed  so  long  to  the  tyranny  of 
symbolism  wielded  by  the  hand  of  the  cunning  priesthood  !  A  more 
splendid  pageant  is  not  spread  on  the  page  of  history  than  this  specta- 
cle of  the  first  outburst  of  purely  human  will  and  human  power  exert- 
ing its  influence  on  mankind.  Where  are  the  Hindoo  symbols? 
Where  are  the  gods  in  this  pageantry  ?  I  see  around  it  men  of  flesh 
and  blood — men  of  strong  individuality  towering  up  into  heroic  dimen- 
sions. I  hear  Ajax  praying  away  the  darkness,  and  daring  Olympus 
itself  to  the  utterance,  if  it  but  consents  to  give  him  light !  I  see  the 
fierce  Diomedes,  thundering  in  his  war  chariot,  on  the  battle-plain  of 
Troy — fronting  the  divinities  of  Olympus  in  deadly  fight.  I  s*ee  him 
feed  his  ruthless  lance  with  the  immortal  blood  of  the  immortal  Mars 
— and  I  feel,  you  feel,  and  every  one  feels,  that  Homer,  on  that  day, 
proclaimed  the  dignity  of  human  nature,  rescued  it  from  the  subduing 
traditions  of  the  past,  and  foreshadowed,  in  undying  song,  the  glorious 
progress  of  the  future ! 


THE  PERIOD   OF  CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH  AMONG 
THE  ANGLO-SAXONS. 

BY    ROBERT   SHARP. 

[ROBERT  SHARP  was  born  in  Lawrence ville,  Va.,  October  24,  1852.  He  was  gradu- 
ated from  Randolph  Macon  College,  in  that  State,  in  1876,  with  the  degree  of  A.M., 
and  from  the  University  of  Leipsic,  in  Germany,  in  1879,  with  the  degree  of  Ph.D.  In 
1880  he  was  elected  Professor  of  Greek  and  English  in  the  University  of  Louisiana,  in 
New  Orleans  ;  and  when  that  institution  was  merged  into  the  Tulane  University,  he 
was  elected  to  the  same  position.  This  position  he  still  holds.  He  is  the  author  of 
a  Treatise  on  the  Use  of  the  Infinitive  in  Herodotus,  written  in  Latin,  and  published 
at  Leipsic,  and  of  various  articles  and  book-reviews  in  journals  of  education,  and  of 
some  miscellaneous  contributions  to  the  newspapers.  He  is  co-editor  with  James  A. 
Harrison,  of  Washington  and  Lee  University,  of  Beowulf,  an  old  English  poem,  with 
Glossary  and  Notes,  now  in  the  fourth  edition.] 

No  history  of  a  people  can  be  even  approximately  complete  with- 
out a  delineation,  as  clear  as  it  may  be  made,  of  the  every -day  life  of 
the  individuals  and  classes  that  make  up  that  people.  A  great  number 
of  details  are  necessary  to  render  this  picture  even  nearly  adequate. 
The  family  life,  the  house,  the  mode  of  dress,  the  character  of  the 
food,  the  occupations,  the  education,  the  civil  and  social  relations,  the 
religion — all  these  and  many  other  things  must  be  reproduced  as 
faithfully  as  is  possible  in  the  circumstances  of  'each  case.  When  this 
has  been  accomplished,  we  are  able  to  comprehend  what  manner  of 
people  we  have  to  do  with ;  and  now,  first,  are  we  prepared  to  read 
and  understand  their  history. 

Trustworthy  information  for  this  description  of  the  early  periods 
of  a  nation's  life  is  often  extremely  difficult  to  obtain.  A  scrap  is 
found  here,  and  a  scrap  there ;  now  in  the  meagre  entries  of  early 
chronicles,  now  in  the  casual  allusions  of  home  contemporary  writers, 
if  such  exist,  or  in  the  observations  of  outsiders,  if  such  fortunately 
survive.  The  pick  and  shovel  of  the  modern  excavator  and  the 
researches  of  the  philologist  may  furnish  their  quota.  These  bits  of 
evidence,  when  severely  tested  and  found  reliable,  are  pieced  together, 
and  thus  the  more  or  less  complete  picture  unfolds  itself  to  our  view. 

A  peculiar  interest  attends  our  investigation,  when  we  attempt 
to  discover  what  was  the  part  played  by  the  young,  by  the  children 
and  youth,  of  an  ancient  people.  The  importance  of  children  to  a 
community  is,  perhaps,  generally  recognized.  A  crusty  few  may  only 


CHILDHOOD  AND   YOUTH  AMONG   THE  ANGLO-SAXONS.       227 

tolerate  them  ;  but  the  larger  number  of  people,  either  from  the  rosy 
reminiscences  of  their  own  childhood,  or  from  loving  association  with 
their  own  or  with  others'  children,  have  a  soft  place  in  their  hearts 
for  the  little  folk,  of  whatever  time,  place,  or  race.  There  are  few  in 
the  retrospect  of  whose  lives  a  child's  prattle  does  not  somewhere 
echo  with  its  simple,  sweet,  humanizing  music.  The  musty  etymolo- 
gist, as  he  digs  up  the  bones  of  dead  words,  wears  a  gentler  expression 
when  he  unearths  a  specimen  which  gives  him  a  glimpse  into  pre- 
historic child-life.  The  dusty  archa3ologist,  when  he  finds  a  grotesque 
terra-cotta  doll,  worn  and  broken,  looks  positively  human,  as  he  calls 
up,  in  imagination,  the  chubby  young  ancient  that  loved,  fondled,  and 
maimed  the  toy  in  his  hand. 

If,  then,  we  may  assume  a  general  interest  in  the  child,  his  ways, 
and  his  bringing  up,  in  the  history  of  every  people,  I  am  sure  we  must 
feel  a  peculiar  interest  in  all  that  throws  any  light  upon  the  career  of 
the  young  people  among  the  Anglo-Saxons,  from  the  time  of  their 
entrance  upon  the  stage,  through  all  the  scenes  and  acts — sometimes 
it  is  comedy,  sometimes  it  is  tragedy — to  the  time  of  their  exit  into 
manhood  and  womanhood,  when  haply  they  survive  so  long.  This 
is  a  family  matter  for  most  of  us ;  for  these  same  Anglo-Saxon  young- 
sters were,  or  were  to  be,  our  ancestors ;  and,  when  we  succeed  in 
calling  them  up  for  inspection  by  the  mind's  eye,  we  look  upon  them 
with  a  proprietary  interest. 

We  shall  not,  however,  be  able  to  produce  a  complete  delineation 
of  child-life  among  the  Anglo-Saxons.  Our  authorities  fail  us  at  many 
points  in  a  most  disappointing  way,  and  the  information  that  we  have 
refers,  for  the  most  part,  only  to  male  children  and  youth.  We 
depend  almost  entirely  upon  the  writings  of  the  Anglo-Saxons  them- 
selves, and  they,  of  course,  did  not  appreciate  the  exceeding  interest 
to  posterity  of  the  details  they  omitted.  Contemporary  foreign 
writers  can  help  us  but  little,  as,  in  the  earlier  period,  few  or  none 
of  them  seem  to  have  known  anything  of  the  Anglo-Saxons  at  home. 
Art  has  left  us  no  suggestions,  either  in  stone  or  on  canvas,  for  the 
excellent  reason  that  there  was  no  Anglo-Saxon  art  of  a  character  to 
be  of  assistance  to  us. 

The  facts  here  presented  have  been  collected  from  many  sources. 
In  some  parts  I  have  culled  from  the  pages  of  modern  writers,  in  some 
instances  I  have  found  valuable  materials  in  Anglo-Saxon  texts  and 
in  the  publications  of  the  Early  English  Text  Society.  I  would  men- 
tion as  having  been  especially  helpful,  Thrupp's  Anglo-Saxon  Home, 
Sharon  Turner's  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  Kemble's  Anglo-Saxon 
Dialogiies,  and  Bede's  writings. 

Beginning  with  the  child  at  his  earliest  appearance,  we  find  that, 


228  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

in  the  opinion  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  it  was  of  the  highest  importance 
that  he  should  be  born  upon  a  lucky  day.  The  first  day  of  the  moon 
was  a  most  fortunate  day ;  for  the  child  born  upon  that  day  was  sure 
to  live  long  and  prosper.  The  second  day  was  not  so  propitious ;  as 
the  child  born  on  that  day  would  grow  fast,  but  would  die  young.  He 
who  was  born  on  the  fourth  day  of  the  moon  was  destined  to  excel  in 
matters  of  state ;  he  who  was  born  on  the  tenth  would  be  a  great 
traveller.  But  the  twenty-first  was  the  best  day  of  all  for  a  birth- 
day, since  he  who  began  life  upon  that  day  would  become  a  bold  and 
successful  marauder. 

Of  the  week-days,  in  Christian  times,  Sunday  was  most  to  be 
recommended  as  a  natal  day,  and  Friday  was  the  most  unfortunate 
of  all ;  for  on  the  latter  day  came  the  crucifixion  ;  and  Adam  ate  the 
forbidden  fruit,  he  was  expelled  from  Paradise,  and  descended  into 
hell — all  on  Friday.* 

In  the  earliest  times,  the  Anglo-Saxon  parent  had  absolute  power 
of  life  or  death  over  the  child,  or,  if  life  was  granted  it,  of  enslaving 
it.  Thus  the  first  dilemma  that  faced  the  child  after  birth  was,  or 
might  prove  to  be,  a  grave  one :  should  it  be  allowed  to  live,  or  not  ? 
The  Anglo-Saxons  held  that  it  was  not  only  permissible,  but  even  a 
virtue  and  a  sign  of  love  on  the  part  of  the  parents,  to  put  to  death, 
directly  or  indirectly,  any  child  born  with  physical  defects.  Thus 
they  and  many  other  peoples  of  antiquity  anticipated  and  went  beyond 
Malthus  of  later  times.  It  seems  doubtful,  indeed,  whether  infanticide 
was  considered  a  crime  under  any  circumstances.  Michelet,  in  his 
Origines  du  Droit  Franqais,  says :  " '  A  child  cries,'  they  said,  '  when 
it  conies  into  the  world,  for  it  anticipates  its  wretchedness.  It  is  well 
for  it  that  it  should  die.'  "  This  sinister  view  of  the  Franks  seems  to 
have  prevailed  generally  among  the  Northern  nations,  and  was  due,  it 
is  likely,  in  a  great  measure  to  the  rigors  of  the  climate  and  the  many 
miseries  attendant  upon  the  struggle  for  existence  in  the  barbarous 
state. 

With  the  change  from  a  life  of  piracy  and  marauding  to  one  more 
settled,  came  a  decrease  in  this  custom  of  murdering  the  innocents. 
But  at  first  the  change  of  view  was  of  small  advantage  to  the  unfor- 
tunate little  ones ;  for  it  seems  that  the  practice  of  actually  putting 
the  child  to  death  merely  gave  place  to  that  of  exposing  it  in  the 
forest  or  upon  the  heath  to  take  its  chance  with  hunger,  cold,  wild 
beast,  and  passing  stranger. 

If  it  was  useless  and  perhaps  criminal  to  rear  a  weakling,  it  was 
even  worse  to  bring  up  a  timid  child,  which  later,  as  a  coward  among 
brave  men,  would  bring  disgrace  upon  its  kin.  To  determine,  there- 
*  Cp.  Kemble's  Anglo-Saxon  Dialogues  :  Solomon  and  Saturn. 


CHILDHOOD  AND   YOUTH  AMONG   THE  ANGLO-SAXONS.       229 

fore,  whether  a  child  suspected  of  timidity  was  entitled  to  live,  he  was 
put  to  some  test.  He  was,  for  instance,  placed  in  some  dangerous 
position,  as  upon  the  bough  of  a  tree  or  upon  a  high  roof.  If  the 
little  one  showed  by  laughing  and  crowing  that  he  enjoyed  his  peril- 
ous position,  he  was  saved  ;  if  he  showed  signs  of  fear,  he  was  doomed, 
and  he  was  exposed  without  mercy.  No  comment  can  add  to,  nor 
lessen,  the  horror  of  the  bare  statement  of  these  facts.  When  once 
the  parent  had  recognized  the  child's  right  to  life,  especially  by  the 
act  of  giving  it  food,  he  might  never  afterwards  slay  it. 

With  the  progress  from  barbarism  towards  enlightenment  came  the 
gradual  abandonment  of  this  custom  in  all  its  forms.  Better  organized 
government,  and  the  recognition  of  sounder  principles  of  political 
economy,  worked  together  with  the  humanizing  influence  of  the  Church 
to  accomplish  this  end,  and  finally  put  an  end  to  the  slaughter  of  the 
children. 

The  wise  King  Ina  offered  a  fixed  reward  to  him  who  should  adopt 
a  child  that  had  been  exposed,  the  amount  varying  with  the  rank  of 
the  child.  For  a  ceorl's  child,  the  foster-parent  received,  each  year, 
six  shillings,  a  cow  in  summer,  and  an  ox  in  winter.  The  adoption  of 
the  child  of  the  proprietor  of  ten  hides  of  land  brought,  for  each  year, 
ten  pots  of  honey,  three  hundred  loaves  of  bread,  twelve  measures  of 
Welsh  ale,  thirty  of  clear  ale,  two  oxen,  ten  sheep,  ten  geese,  twenty 
hens,  ten  cheeses,  a  measure  of  butter,  five  salmon,  twenty  pounds  of 
fodder,  and  last,  but  not  least,  one  hundred  eels.  This  appetizing 
stipend  was  supposed  to  repay  the  new  parent  for  his  trouble  and  ex- 
pense. Indeed,  one  would  think  that  such  waifs  would  have  been  at 
a  premium.  This  compensation  was  continued  until  the  child  was 
supposed  to  be  able,  by  its  labor,  to  contribute  an  equivalent  of  the 
expense  of  its  support.* 

When  the  Anglo-Saxons  became  cultivators  of  the  soil,  the  adopted 
children  were  made  to  earn  their  salt,  and,  it  may  be,  even  more ;  and 
farmers  were  observed  to  be  especially  inclined  to  have  pity  on  the 
little  foundlings,  and  'to  take  them  in.  Thrupp  remarks,  with  much 
point :  "  From  this  period  infanticide  became  not  only  a  crime  but  an 
extravagance."  That  the  adopted  children  were  often  cruelly  treated 
goes  without  saying ;  but  the  Church  and  the  Government  were  the 
friends  of  the  little  folk,  and  with  time  their  condition  improved. 

A  hideous  consequence  of  the  unlimited  power  of  the  parent  over 
the  child  was  the  practice  of  selling  it  into  slavery.  The  Anglo-Saxon 
father  had,  at  first,  the  privilege  of  selling  his  child  whenever  he 
pleased ;  but  this  power  was  afterwards  restricted,  and  he  was  allowed 
to  do  so  only  under  the  pressure  of  absolute  necessity.  "  In  case  of 
*  See  Ellis  :  Doomsday  Book,  vol.  i.  p.  128,  cited  by  Thrupp. 


230  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

extreme  want,"  says  an  old  Frisian  law,  cited  by  Thrupp,  "  when  the 
child  is  naked  as  a  worm,  and  without  a  roof,  when  the  black  fog  and 
the  cold  winter  reach  her,  then  may  the  mother  sell  her  child." 

The  Church  steadily  opposed  this  custom  from  the  first,  and,  with 
the  aid  of  more  humane  rulers,  eventually  abolished  it.  But  at  first 
it  could  only  impose  limitations.  Theodore,  second  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury "(668),  ruled  that  a  father,  if  pressed  by  great  difficulties, 
might  sell  a  son  who  was  under  the  age  of  seven,  and  a  daughter — in 
marriage — up  to  the  age  of  fourteen.  Beyond  this  they  might  not  be 
sold  at  all.  Archbishop  Eegbert,  about  eighty  years  later,  grudgingly 
renewed  the  permission,  but  declared  that  whoever  availed  himself  of 
it  deserved  excommunication. 

During  the  earlier  period,  the  child  might  be  sold  in  payment  of 
penalties  incurred  by  his  father.  But  from  the  beginning  of  the 
tenth  century  no  child  under  ten  could  be  punished  for  his  father's 
crimes,  nor  one  over  ten  unless  he  had  partaken  of  the  offence.  King 
Canute  (1020)  referred  with  indignation  to  the  ancient  custom  of  sell- 
ing the  child  into  slavery  for  the  father's  crimes,  "  as  it  lay  in  the 
cradle,  before  it  had  even  tasted  meat,  it  being  held  by  the  covetous 
to  be  equally  guilty  as  if  it  had  discretion." 

The  custom  of  putting  children  out  to  nurse  prevailed;  and  it 
seems  that  it  was  a  matter  of  common  occurrence  for  them  to  be 
brutally  treated.  So  much  so,  that  King  Alfred  found  it  necessary  to 
decree  *  that,  when  a  child  put  out  to  nurse  died,  the  nurse  was  to  be 
presumed  guilty  of  its  death  till  she  could  prove  her  innocence — a  stern 
measure  for  the  prevention  of  cruelty  to  children. 

The  domestic  nurse  was  an  exceedingly  important  personage  in  the 
Anglo-Saxon  household,  as  well  as  in  other  households,  ancient  and 
modern.  She  was  often  richly  rewarded  for  her  services,  and  justly, 
it  would  seem ;  for  we  shall  find  that  some  of  her  duties  went  far  be- 
yond her  modern  successor's  conception  of  her  obligations.  It  was 
her  duty,  for  example,  to  protect  the  child  from  evil  spirits.  We 
know  something  of  their  methods  of  accomplishing  this,  but  so  little 
that  it  must  be  counted  among  the  lost  arts.  Certainly  the  modern 
nurse  seems  unable  to  exorcise  the  evil  spirits  that  sometimes  take 
possession  of  her  charge — at  least,  so  say  the  cynical  bachelors. 

The  details  of  this  interesting  performance,  as  far  as  they  are 
known,  were  about  as  follows :  as  soon  as  practicable  after  the  birth 
of  the  infant,  a  ditch,  or  better,  a  small  tunnel  was  dug,  and  then  the 
little  one  was  drawn  through  this,  the  opening  by  which  he  entered 
being  carefully  and  effectually  closed  behind  him  with  brambles  and, 
perhaps,  twigs ;  for  you  must  know  that  the  evil  spirits  that  possess 
*  Laws  of  Alfred,  c.  17. 


CHILDHOOD  AND   YOUTH  AMONG   THE  ANGLO-SAXONS.     231 

children  are  very  sensitive  to  brambles— and  to  twigs.  In  process  of 
time  it  came  to  be  the  fashion  for  the  child's  nurse  to  crawl  through 
the  tunnel  vicariously,  for  the  child,  as  before  shutting  out  the  pursu- 
ing spirits  with  the  briers.  This  was  found  to  be  just  as  effective  as 
when  the  child  went  through  in  proper  person.  This  arrangement 
was  satisfactory  to  all  parties,  and  certainly  added  to  the  value  and 
importance  of  the  nurse. 

There  have  been  various  surmises  as  to  the  origin  of  this  curious 
custom.  Thrupp  suggests  that  it  is  a  survival  of  the  heathen  worship 
of  Frija  and  Eortha.  Another  opinion  is,  that  it  was  intended  to 
typify  the  descent  into  the  grave  and  the  resurrection.  This  is  proba- 
ble enough,  if  the  practice  belonged  exclusively  to  the  Christian  period, 
which  cannot  be  well  proved  nor  disproved. 

A  kind  of  baptism  of  infants  was  practiced  in  the  North  of  Europe 
before  the  introduction  of  Christianity.  Snorri  Sturlusen  tells,  in  his 
chronicle,  how  a  Norwegian  noble,  who  lived  in  the  reign  of  Harold 
Harf  agra,  poured  water  upon  the  head  of  a  man  and  called  him  Haakon 
after  his  father.  This  may,  to  some  extent,  account  for  the  supersti- 
tion that  existed  at  first  in  regard  to  the  Christian  rite.  Soames,  in 
The  Anglo-Saxon  Church ,  tells  us  that  Anglo-Saxons  regarded  it  as  a 
magical  ceremony  for  calling  in  a  good  spirit  to  keep  out  the  evil  ones. 

The  relations  existing  between  the  god-parents,  and  between  them 
and  the  god-child,  were  very  close.  The  god-parents  might  not  be 
united  in  marriage  after  the  baptism,  and  the  god-child  might  collect 
damages  for  injury  done  to  the  god-parent. 

The  names  given  Anglo-Saxon  children  were,  in  early  times,  as 
were,  perhaps,  all  names  at  first,  either  descriptive  of  circumstances 
connected  with  their  birth,  or  significant  of  what  it  was  hoped  they 
might  become.  Sometimes  they  were  prosaic  attempts  to  condense 
into  a  single  word  some  incident  occurring  at  the  time  of  the  child's 
birth,  or  in  its  early  history ;  sometimes  they  were  descriptive  of  its 
appearance.  Often  they  were  fanciful,  sometimes  poetic,  not  infre- 
quently grotesque.  Often  the  tenderness  or  gratitude  awakened  by 
the  advent  of  the  child,  as  evinced  in  the  name  bestowed  on  it,  seems 
strangely  inconsistent  when  displayed  by  the  people  who  could  even 
still  expose  upon  the  desolate  heath,  apparently  without  a  pang,  their 
less  favored  offspring. 

Of  course,  their  names  ultimately  became  conventional ;  but  at  first 
they  were  not  so,  and  the  story  told  by  them  often  gives  us  a  glimpse 
into  the  gentler  side  of  the  nature  of  these  half-tamed  barbarians.  It 
must  be  admitted,  however,  that  the  love  of  war,  and  their  savage 
spirit,  are  more  frequently  apparent  in  the  names  of  males,  as  may  be 
seen,  for  example,  from  the  great  number  of  names  having  "  wolf  " 


232  ESSAYS— MIXED. 

as  one  element.  The  wolf  was  evidently  a  beast  of  habits  most  con- 
genial to  the  tastes  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  ancestors ;  and  they  often 
gave  the  young  innocents  names  that  showed  the  proud  father's  rea- 
sonable hope  that  his  son  might  prove  to  be,  in  some  degree,  wolf -like. 
A  few  examples  out  of  many  are :  Sigewulf,  Wolf  of  Victory ;  Ethel- 
wulf ,  Noble  Wolf  ;  Ealdwulf ,  Old  Wolf ;  Ulph,  Wolf,  pure  and  simple. 
Then  there  were  Egberht,  Sword's  Gleam;  Herberht,  Glory  of  the 
Army,  and  many  other  warlike  compounds. 

Of  a  more  pacific  character  were  such  as  Ethelberht,  Noble  and 
Bright ;  Alfred,  Elf  in  Council,  that  is,  Good  in  Council. 

When  there  were  more  than  one  of  the  same  name,  other  distin- 
guishing designations  were  added,  sometimes  patronymic,  as  Alfredson; 
sometimes  denoting  the  occupation,  as  in  Osgood  Stealere.  Strange 
to  say,  "  Stealere  "  then  meant  "  steward ; "  and  the  resemblance,  as 
we  of  modern  times  know,  to  "  stealer,"  was  purely  fortuitous. 

Surnames  often  grew  out  of  personal  characteristics,  and  such  were 
added  in  later  life.  They  were  often  comical  and  uncomplimentary. 
We  are  all  familiar  with  Harold  Harefoot,  Edmund  Ironsides,  and 
Edith  Swanneck ;  and  we  meet  with  Wulfric  the  Pale,  Thurcyl  Mares- 
head,  Godwin  Towndog,  and  Ketel  Flatnose.  Other  surnames  were : 
Ugly,  Squinteyed,  Longbeard,  Hognose,  Hawknbse,  Spoonnose,  Torch- 
nose — what  a  world  of  suggestion  the  last  name  bears ! — and  Yfelcild, 
Badboy. 

The  names  given  to  girls  are  especially  interesting  as  affording 
evidence  of  a  tender  side  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  nature.  Such  are : 
Deorswithe,  Yery  Dear ;  Deorwyne,  Darling  Joy ;  Edflida,  Stream  of 
Happiness ;  Elfgif u,  Gift  of  the  Elves ;  Bertha,  Bright ;  and  many  other 
similar  ones.* 

Certainly  such  names,  before  they  became  conventional,  were  more 
picturesque  than  are  our  modern  meaningless  designations,  which,  in 
many  instances,  are  scarcely  more  suggestive  or  euphonious  than,  for 
example,  No.  3  or  No.  11  would  be. 

Among  the  Anglo-Saxons,  the  male  child  ceased,  technically,  at  the 
age  of  eight  years  to  be  an  infant  and  became  a  youth.  Allowing  for 
difference  in  time  and  environment,  I  dare  say  they  were  pretty  much 
such  boys  as  other  boys  have  been  and  are ;  and  our  discussion  of  them 
might  perhaps  best  begin  and  end  with  simply  saying  that  they  were 
boys.  As  is  well  known,  boys  constitute  a  genus  by  themselves,  sub- 
divided into  two  species :  good  boys — some  would  have  it  that  this 
species  exists  only  on  paper — and  bad  boys.  Anglo-Saxon  boys,  of 
course,  afforded  no  exception  to  this  classification. 

We  know,  from  his  own  evidence,  that  the  Venerable  Bede  was 

*  Examples  mainly  from  Thrupp's  Anglo-Saxon  Home. 


CHILDHOOD  AND   YOUTH  AMONG   THE  ANGLO-SAXONS.      233 

once  one  of  the  boys ;  for  he  tells  us  that,  till  his  eighth  year,  he  gave 
his  mind  alone  to  such  plays  and  enjoyments  as  boys  delighted  in, 
taking  great  pleasure  in  mirth  and  clamor.  He  speaks  in  no  very 
diffident  way  of  his  achievements  among  the  other  youths,  claiming 
that  he  could  at  least  hold  his  own  with  the  best  or  the  worst  of  them. 
He  tells  us  that  the  Anglo-Saxons  trained  their  children  from  their 
earliest  years  in  running,  wrestling,  jumping,  and  other  athletic  exer- 
cises. Fighting  and  hunting  came  as  additional  accomplishments  as 
they  grew  older. 

When  the  Anglo-Saxon  child  became  a  youth,  he  was  called  a 
cniht  (German,  Knecht\  that  is,  servant.  This  is  the  word  that  after- 
ward passed  into  the  form  and  meaning  of  knight.  They  seem  to  have 
been  trained  to  habits  of  obedience,  and  to  have  served  visitors  under 
the  parental  roof. 

In  the  earliest  times,  the  Anglo-Saxon  youth,  with  all  their  woes, 
at  least  never  had  to  submit  to  the  bondage  of  the  schoolmaster ;  but 
with  the  introduction  of  Christianity,  and  the  consequent  great  im- 
provement in  their  condition,  came,  as  an  offset,  the  school  with  its 
attendant  labors  and  restraints.  At  first,  the  only  teachers  were  the 
priests,  and  the  meagre  instruction  imparted  was  confined  almost 
entirely  to  such  as  proposed  to  take  holy  orders.  Alfred  had  to  force 
his  officials  to  learn  to  read  and  write  ;  and  if  anything  prevented  one 
of  them  from  doing  so,  he  had  to  send  a  son  or  a  slave  to  learn  in  his 
stead,  much  to  the  substitute's  sorrow,  perhaps. 

But  as  time  passed,  the  courses  of  study  improved  very  much,  and 
education  became  more  general.  Bede  (IV.  2)  informs  us  that  in  the 
school  established  by  Bishop  Theodore,  instruction  was  given  under 
the  heads  of  poetry,  astronomy,  and  arithmetic.  In  the  school  at 
York,  where  Alcuin  was  a  pupil,  grammar,  rhetoric,  astronomy, 
poetry,  natural  philosophy,  metaphysics,  medicine,  and  theology 
were  taught. 

Great  progress  in  education  was  made  in  these  early  times ;  but 
the  Norsemen  brought  confusion  and  devastation,  and  the  ruin  of  the 
schools.  Alfred  found  his  people  relapsed  into  dense  ignorance.  The 
members  of  the  royal  family  were  no  exception.  We  learn  from  the 
biography  of  Alfred,  ascribed  to  Asser,  that  Alfred's  brothers  could 
neither  read  nor  write,  and  that  their  instruction  was  limited  to  the 
singing  of  psalms  and  reciting  of  poetry.  The  biographer  says  that 
Alfred  himself,  "  through  the  wicked  neglect  of  his  parents  and  nurses, 
at  the  age  of  twelve  had  not  yet  learned  to  read."  He  then  goes  on 
to  tell  the  well-known  story — how  his  mother  (or  step-mother,  Judith '(} 
once  displayed  to  Alfred  and  his  brothers  a  beautifully  illuminated 
book  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry,  and  offered  it  to  the  one  of  them  who 


234  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

should  first  be  able  to  recite  its  contents.  Alfred,  the  youngest,  whether 
attracted  by  the  beauty  of  the  book  or  of  the  poetry,  undertook  the 
task,  and  by  having  it  often  read  to  him  won  the  prize.  This  is  said 
to  have  given  him  his  first  impulse  towards  learning  to  read. 

Alfred,  in  the  course  of  his  strenuous  efforts  to  improve  the  condi- 
tion of  his  people  in  the  matter  of  education,  is  said  to  have  brought 
over  to  England  youths  from  foreign  lands,  who  were  accustomed  to 
study,  "  to  serve  as  decoy  ducks,"  in  order  that  the  reluctant  and 
perhaps  somewhat  thick-headed  Anglo-Saxon  boys  might  be  stimu- 
lated to  study,  and  might  see  how  it  was  done.  In  the  wars  and 
bloodshed  that  followed  his  reign,  a  great  part  of  the  good  work  done 
by  him  for  education  was  again  swept  away,  but  some  of  the  effects 
remained  along  with  its  traditions. 

The  Anglo-Saxon  youth  were  never  spoilt,  if  we  may  trust  their 
own  evidence,  through  the  sparing  of  the  rod.  They  speak  repeatedly 
of  the  great  virtue  that  lay  in  this  instrument :  it  was  "  the  quickener 
of  intelligence,"  "  the  strengthener  of  memory,"  the  general  panacea, 
it  would  seem,  for  all  youthful  failings.  Their  writers  refer  regularly 
to  their  schooldays  as  the  period  when  they  were  "  under  the  rod." 
Alcuin  expresses  his  gratitude  to  the  good  brethren  of  York  Minster, 
for  their  care  of  him,  as  follows :  "  Ye  cherished  the  weak  mind  of  my 
infancy  with  maternal  affection;  ye  sustained  my  wanton  days  of 
childhood  with  pious  patience ;  ye  brought  me  to  the  perfect  age  of 
manhood  by  the  discipline  of  paternal  castigation."  And  again,  in 
illustrating  some  point,  he  says  :  "  As  scourges  teach  children  to  learn 
the  ornament  of  wisdom,  and  to  accustom  themselves  to  good  man- 
ners," etc. 

The  rod,  proper,  was  reserved  for  sturdy  youth.  Infants,  who 
were  not  yet  strong  enough  to  endure  it,  had  the  soles  of  their  feet 
pricked  with  an  instrument,  the  acra,  made  for  the  purpose.  It  was 
considered  very  stimulating. 

There  is  extant  a  dialogue,*  in  which  an  Anglo-Saxon  pupil  in 
training  for  holy  orders  applies  to  a  master  for  instruction  in  Latin. 
The  master  at  once  inquires  how  he  wishes  to  be  taught,  whether  by 
scourging,  or  not.  This  shows  that  the  rod  was  regarded  not  simply  as 
a  means  of  accentuating  a  reproof,  but  as  a  method  of  enlarging  the 
intelligence.  To  such  unsuspected  agencies  do  we  owe,  in  some  part, 
it  would  seem,  the  sturdy  physique  and  splendid  intellect  of  the 
descendants  of  these  much-belabored  ancestors. 

The  youth  in  the  above-mentioned  dialogue  makes  a  reply  which 
I,  in  the  light  of  personal  experience  as  schoolboy  and  with  school- 
boys, must  consider  as  casting  some  discredit  upon  the  story.  He 
*  Wright,  Cottoq.  Arch.  Alfr. 


CHILDHOOD  AND    YOUTH  AMONG   THE  ANGLO-SAXONS.      235 

replies  that  he  much  prefers  being  thrashed  to  not  learning.  But  it 
must  be  taken  into  consideration  that  this  sort  of  discipline  is  no  nov- 
elty to  him,  for  he  says  further  on  that  he  has  been  accustomed  to 
being  awakened  in  the  morning,  sometimes  by  the  church  bell,  some- 
times by  his  master's  rod. 

The  drubbing  seems  to  have  been  laid  on  with  anything  that  was 
handy.  It  is  said  that  King  Ethelred,  while  yet  a  child,  once  angered 
his  mother,  and  she,  not  having  a  rod  convenient,  used  some  heavy 
candles  as  a  substitute,  and  with  such  effect  that  Ethelred  could  never 
afterwards  endure  the  sight  of  a  candle.* 

It  was  believed,  too,  that  a  beating,  well  administered,  would  not 
only  stimulate  the  intellect,  but  would  impress  upon  the  memory  any 
circumstance  with  which  it  was  associated ;  and  it  was  often  inflicted 
with  this  purpose.  To  illustrate :  the  children  were  flogged  at  Chil- 
dermass,  with  a  view  to  impressing  upon  their  memory  the  massacre 
of  the  innocents  by  King  Herod.  Certainly,  in  this  case,  cruelty  to 
innocents  was  illustrated  by  example,  the  difference  between  the  thing 
to  be  illustrated  and  the  illustration  being  only  in  degree. 

But  the  much-drubbed  schoolboy,  like  the  worm,  mav  turn ;  and 
we  have  the  evidence  of  William  of  Malmesbury  and  others  that  the 
pupils  of  the  school  at  Malmesbury  once  fell  upon  an  especiallv  cruel 
master  and  killed  him  with  their  pens.  There  arose,  however,  in 
time,  teachers  who  believed  in  other  methods ;  and  we  read  with 
pleasure  of  an  Abbot  of  Croyland,  Turketel,  who  rewarded  the  more 
industrious  pupils  with  figs,  raisins,  apples,  pears,  and  the  like.  The 
good  Abbot  should  be  canonized  by  the  boys  as  their  patron  saint. 

Before  the  introduction  of  the  so-called  Arabic  notation  and  sys- 
tem in  calculation,  the  Anglo-Saxon  youth  labored  under  great  diffi- 
culties in  his  study  of  arithmetic.  Aldhelm  says  that  the  labor  of 
mastering  all  his  other  studies  was  small  as  compared  with  that 
expended  on  his  arithmetic.  Following  the  ancients,  they  talked  of 
numbers  as  equally  equal,  equally  unequal,  unequally  equal,  even  and 
odd,  simple,  composite,  and  mean ;  as  superfluous,  defective,  and  per- 
fect ;  and  there  was  much  more  useless  machinery  of  a  like  kind.  The 
problems  in  arithmetic  were  often  quaint  and  fantastic.  The  follow- 
ing is  one  of  several  cited  by  Thrupp  :  "  The  swallow  once  invited  the 
snail  to  dinner  ;  he  lived  just  one  league  from  the  spot,  and  the  snail 
travelled  at  the  rate  of  one  inch  a  day.  How  long  would  it  be  before 
he  dined  ? " 

Their  natural  philosophy,  while  in  the  main  erroneous,  was,  never- 
theless, a  good  training,  in  that  it  caused  the  youth  to  look  to  nature 
for  the  causes  of  natural  occurrences.  They  thought  and  taught,  for 
*  Thrupp,  Anglo-Saxon  Home. 


236  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

instance,  that  thunder  and  lightning  resulted  from  the  collision  of  the 
clouds,  and  that  earthquakes  were  caused  by  winds  rushing  through 
caverns  in  the  earth. 

The  astronomy  learned  by  the  pupils  in  these  Anglo-Saxon  schools 
was  sufficient  to  puzzle  wiser  heads  than  it  is  likely  that  they  carried. 
Alfric,  quoting  Alcuin,  tells  us  that  the  heavens  were  of  the  nature  of 
fire,  and  always  turning  the  stars  from  east  to  west ;  and  that  the 
motion  was  so  rapid  that  disaster  would  result,  were  it  not  for  the 
restraining  influence  of  the  seven  planets,  which  moved  in  an  opposite 
direction,  and  so  diminished  the  rapid  movement  of  the  heavens. 
These  crude  ideas  were  taken  from  Latin  works ;  but  the  Anglo-Saxon 
teachers  seem  not  to  have  known  the  best  work  of  the  Alexandrine 
Greeks. 

Of  geography,  and  of  men  and  manners  in  other  countries,  their 
ideas  were  equally  vague.  Sharon  Turner  quotes  from  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  manuscript  in  the  Cotonian  Library  the  statement,  that  on  the 
way  to  the  Red  Sea  there  was  a  place  that  contained  red  hens,  and  if 
a  man  touched  them  he  would  be  at  once  burned  to  ashes.  The 
necessary  inference  seems  to  be  that  some  ingenious  owner  of  fowls 
had  been  imposing  upon  the  credulity  of  Anglo-Saxon  travellers,  who 
even  then  displayed  huge  appetites  and  vague  consciences  in  matters 
of  annexation.  The  same  manuscript  tells  of  men  with  boar's  tusks, 
dog's  heads,  and  horse's  manes,  who  breathed  flames ;  of  ants  as  big 
as  dogs,  Avhich  dug  gold,  and  gave  it  to  men  in  exchange  for  young 
camels,  which  they  devoured — evidently  an  echo  from  old  Herodotus. 
There  were  men  in  Gaul  or  France,  it  said  further,  with  heads  like 
those  of  lions,  and  mouths  like  the  sails  of  windmills.  They  were 
twenty  feet  high,  but  would  readily  run  away.  So  we  see  that  the 
detractions  of  perfidious  Albion  are  not  new. 

An  extract  from  a  dialogue  *  between  Alcuin  and  his  pupil,  Pepin, 
son  of  Charlemagne,  will  illustrate  much  of  the  so-called  instruction  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  youth ;  for  Alcuin  had  brought  his  methods  with 
him  from  England.  It  will  be  seen  that,  while  passing  as  a  lesson  in 
useful  knowledge,  it  is  really  a  more  or  less  picturesque  word-play 
and  exercise  in  constructing  fantastic  metaphors,  conundrums,  and 
epigrams.  The  pupil  questions,  and  Alcuin  answers : 

"  What  is  a  letter  ?     The  keeper  of  history. 

"  What  is  a  word  ?     The  betrayer  of  the  mind. 

"  What  is  the  tongue  ?     The  scourge  of  the  air. 

"  What  is  man  ?  The  slave  of  death ;  a  transient  traveller  ;  a  local 
guest. 

"  How  is  man  placed  ?     As  a  lamp  in  the  wind. 

*  Sharon  Turner,  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  III.  262. 


CHILDHOOD  AND   YOUTH  AMONG   THE  ANGLO-SAXONS.      237 

"  What  is  sleep  ?     The  image  of  death. 

"  What  is  man's  liberty  ?     Innocence. 

"  What  is  the  head  ?     The  crown  of  the  body. 

"  What  is  the  body  ?     The  home  of  the  mind. 

"What  are  the  eyes?  The  leaders  of  the  body;  the  vessels  of 
light ;  the  index  of  the  mind. 

"What  is  the  sun?  The  splendor  of  the  world;  the  beauty  of 
heaven;  the  grace  of  nature;  the  honor  of  day;  the  distributer  of 
the  hours. 

"  What  is  the  moon  ?  The  eye  of  the  night ;  the  giver  of  dew ; 
the  prophet  of  the  weather. 

"  What  is  the  earth  ?  The  mother  of  the  growing ;  the  nurse  of 
the  living ;  the  storehouse  of  life ;  the  devourer  of  all  things. 

"What  is  the  sea?  The  path  of  audacity;  the  fountain  of 
showers ;  the  refuge  of  danger ;  the  favorer  of  pleasures."  Here  the 
spirit  of  the  sea-rover  speaks. 

"  What  is  fire  ?     Excess  of  heat," — concise,  if  not  scientific. 

"  What  is  snow  ?     Dry  water. 

"  What  is  spring  ?     The  painter  of  the  earth. 

"  What  is  autumn  ?     The  granary  of  the  year. 

"  What  makes  a  man  never  weary  ?     Gain. 

"  What  is  that  which  is  and  is  not  ?    Nothing." 

This  somewhat  long  quotation  contains  much  that  scarcely  deserves 
a  better  name  than  trifling,  though,  in  places,  the  figures  themselves 
are  poetic.  Indeed,  we  find  here  much  the  same  kind  of  profuse 
imagery  that  abounds  in  the  poetry  of  the  Anglo-Saxons.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  this  exercise  was  intended  simply  as  a  rhetorical  drill. 

It  would  be  unfair  to  leave  undisputed  the  natural  inference  from 
the  above  and  what  will  follow,  that  Alcuin  was  only  a  wordv  pedant. 
He  was  one  of  the  greatest  scholars  of  his  time,  and  as  such  was 
selected  by  Charlemagne  as  instructor  for  himself  and  his  children, 
and  as  general  organizer  of  educational  institutions  in  his  realm. 

I  shall  close  with  a  passage  from  a  letter  from  this  same  Alcuin 
to  Charlemagne,  which,  in  spite  of  its  excessively  florid  style — and  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  its  equal  in  this  respect — will  serve  to  show 
that  the  facilities  for  higher  education  offered  at  this  time  to  Anglo- 
Saxon  youth  were  in  advance  of  those  to  be  found  on  the  continent. 
The  library  at  York  referred  to  was  not  long  afterwards  utterly 
destroyed  by  the  ruthless  ^Norsemen. 

Alcuin,  while  superintending  the  studies  in  the  schools  which  he 
had  established  at  Tours,  found  himself  sadly  in  need  of  books  suitable 
for  advanced  work.  In  the  letter  mentioned  above  he  says :  "  Accord- 
ing to  your  exhortations  and  kind  wish,  I  endeavor  to  administer,  in 


238  ESSAYS— MIXED. 

the  schools  of  St.  Martin,  to  some,  the  honey  of  the  sacred  writings ; 
I  try  to  inebriate  others  with  the  wine  of  the  ancient  classics ;  I  begin 
to  nourish  some  with  the  apples  of  grammatical  subtlety ;  I  strive  to 
illuminate  many  by  the  arrangement  of  the  stars,  as  from  the  painted 
roof  of  a  lofty  palace.  But  I  want  those  more  exquisite  books  of  schol- 
arly erudition  which  I  had  in  my  own  country.  May  it,  then,  please 
your  wisdom  that  I  send  some  of  our  youths  to  procure  what  we  need, 
and  to  convey  into  France  the  flowers  of  Britain,  that  they  may  not 
be  locked  up  in  York  only,  but  that  their  fragrance  and  fruit  may 
adorn  at  Tours  the  gardens  and  streams  of  the  Loire."  * 

*  Sharon  Turner  :  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  III.  12. 


THE  EARLY  LITERATURE   OF  SPAIN. 

BY   J.    D.    B.    DE    BOW. 

[JAMES  DUNWOODY  BROWNSON  DE  Bow  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  July  10,  1820. 
In  1843  he  was  graduated  from  Charleston  College,  and  was  later  admitted  to  the'bar  of 
that  city.  He  was,  for  a  while,  editor  of  the  Southern  Quarterly  Review.  In  1845  he 
removed  to  New  Orleans,  where  he  established  and  edited  De  Bow's  Review.  In  1848  he 
was  elected  Professor  of  Political  Economy  in  the  University  of  Louisiana.  In  1850-53 
he  had  charge  of  the  Census  Bureau  of  the  State,  and  during  part  of  Pierce's  administra- 
tion he  held  the  office  of  Superintendent  of  the  Census  of  the  United  States.  He  was 
the  author  of  The  Southern  States  :  their  Agriculture,  Commerce,  etc.  (1856).  His  best 
edited  work  is  on  Mortality  Statistics.  He  died  in  Elizabeth,  N.  J.,  February  27, 1867.] 

THE  Moorish  power  in  Spain  was  marked  by  much  that  was  glori- 
ous in  civilization,  in  luxury  and  letters ;  and,  amid  the  darkness  and 
gloom  which  had  settled  upon  Europe,  shone  forth  with  steady  and 
almost  dazzling  brightness.  Men  of  letters  congregated  there  from 
all  the  world,  attracted  by  its  libraries,  its  schools,  and  its  scholars ; 
and  many  of  the  regenerating  influences  which,  long  afterward,  dissi- 
pated the  night  of  the  middle  ages,  may  be  traced  to  the  intellectual 
empires  of  Cordova  and  Granada. 

The  Gothicized  Latin  of  the  Christians,  coming  now  in  intimate 
association  with  the  Arabic,  a  more  polished  and  refined  one,  adopted 
many  of  its  forms,  and  borrowed  copiously  from  its  vocabulary.  The 
change  was  gradual  and  continuous,  and,  about  the  middle  of  the 
twelfth  century,  the  amalgamated  elements  had  risen  to  the  dignity  of 
a  written  language,  known,  ever  since,  as  the  Castilian,  or  Spanish. 
From  this  period  is  traced  the  history  of  Spanish  literature. 

Here  we  recognize,  according  to  Mr.  Ticknor,  the  existence,  in 
Spain,  of  a  language,  spreading  gradually  throughout  the  greater  part 
of  the  country,  different  from  the  pure  or  the  corrupted  Latin,  and 
still  more  different  from  the  Arabic,  yet  obviously  formed  by  a  union 
of  both,  modified  by  the  analogies  and  spirit  of  the  Gothic  construc- 
tions and  dialects,  and  containing  some  remains  of  the  vocabularies  of 
the  Spanish  tribes,  of  the  Iberians,  the  Celts,  and  the  Phoenicians,  who, 
at  different  periods,  had  occupied  nearly  or  quite  the  whole  of  the 
peninsula.  This  language  was  called,  originally,  the  Romance,  because 
it  was  so  much  formed  out  of  the  language  of  the  Romans ;  later  it 
was  called  Spanish,  and  at  last,  more  frequently,  called  Castilian,  from 
that  portion  of  the  country  whose  political  power  grew  to  be  so  pre- 
dominant as  to  give  its  dialect  a  preponderance  over  all  others.  The 


240  ESSAYS— MIXED. 

proportion  of  all  these  elements  is  estimated,  by  Sarmiento :  six-tenths 
of  Latin  origin,  one-tenth  Greek  and  ecclesiastical,  one-tenth  Northern, 
one-tenth  Arabic,  one-tenth  East  Indian,  American,  gypsy,  modern 
German,  French,  and  Italian. 

The  first  kno\vn  author  in  the  Castilian  was  one  Gonzalo,  a  priest, 
who  lived  about  1240,  and  wrote  an  octavo  volume,  of  poems,  mostly 
of  the  religious  order.  The  following,  from  his  "  Mourning  of  the 
Virgin  at  the  Cross,"  is  very  life-like : 

"  My  son,  in  me  and  thee  life  still  was  felt  as  one ; 
I  loved  thee  much,  and  thou  lovedst  me  in  perfectness,  my  son  ; 
My  faith  in  thee  was  sure,  and  I  thy  faith  had  won, 
And  doth  thy  large  and  pitying  fate  forget  me  now,  my  son  ? 
My  son,  forget  me  not,  but  take  my  soul  with  thine — 
The  earth  holds  but  one  heart  that  kindred  is  with  mine, 
John,  whom  thou  gav'st  to  be  my  child,  who  here  with  me  doth  pine: 
I  pray  thee,  then,  that  to  my  prayer  thou  graciously  incline." 

Previously  to  this,  however,  there  are  many  anonymous  poems,  the 
most  celebrated  of  which  is  that  of  the  Cid,  consisting  of  about  three 
thousand  lines.  The  Cid  was  a  popular  hero  of  the  chivalrous  age  of 
Spain  ;  and  the  poem  narrates,  with  stirring,  graphic,  yet  rude  power, 
the  long  series  of  glorious  exploits  that  marked  his  eventful  and  splen- 
did military  career.  It  is,  besides,  a  faithful  and  simple  picture  of  the 
manners,  customs,  and  institutions  of  that  romantic  period. 

The  next  known  author  in  Castilian  literature  is  Alfonso  the  Tenth, 
or,  as  he  is  distinguished  in  history,  "  Alfonso  the  wise."  A  poet  and 
a  philosopher,  it  was  said  of  him,  "  He  was  more  fit  for  letters  than  for 
the  government  of  his  subjects ;  he  studied  the  heavens  and  watched 
the  stars,  but  forgot  the  earth  and  lost  his  kingdom."  To  this  mon- 
arch the  world  is  indebted  for  that  code  which  has  had  so  wide  an 
influence  for  its  wisdom  and  equity,  and  which,  at  this  day,  constitutes 
almost  the  common  law  of  Spain — the  Partidas.  This  valuable  work 
was  undertaken  in  1263  or  1265,  and  called  Las  Siete  Partidas,  or  the 
"  seven  parts,"  from  the  number  of  divisions  it  contained.  It  is  dis- 
tinguished in  general  for  a  peaceful  and  polished  style,  working  upon 
the  materials  of  the  Decretals,  the  Digest  and  Code  of  Justinian,  the 
Fuero  Juzgo,  a  collection  of  Visigoth  laAvs  made  by  St.  Ferdinand, 
the  father  of  Alfonso,  and  other  Spanish  and  foreign  authorities.  The 
Partidas,  however,  differs  very  much  in  nature  and  character  from  the 
Justinian  and  Xapoleon  codes,  and  is  rather  a  collection  of  legal,  moral, 
and  religious  treatises,  systematically  arranged.  It  abounds  in  dis- 
cussions of  various  kinds,  and  presents,  according  to  Mr.  Ticknor,  a 
digested  result  of  the  readings  of  a  learned  monarch  and  his  coadjutors 
in  the  thirteenth  century,  on  the  relative  duty  of  a  king  and  his  sub- 


THE  EARLY  LITERATURE  OF  SPAIN.  241 

jects,  and  on  the  entire  legislation  and  police,  ecclesiastical,  civil,  and 
moral,  to  which,  in  their  opinion,  Spain  should  be  subjected ;  the  whole 
interspersed  with  discussions,  sometimes  more  quaint  than  grave,  etc., 
etc. 

This  code,  though  it  was  not  for  nearly  a  century  recognized  as  of 
binding  authority  in  Spain,  has  ever  afterward  maintained  the  high- 
est rank  in  that  country  and  her  colonies,  and,  since  the  annexation  of 
Louisiana  and  Florida  to  the  United  States,  has  been  consulted  con- 
stantly and  applied  by  our  jurists. 

Among  the  earliest  monuments  of  Spanish  literature,  the  "  Ballads  " 
occupy  a  distinguished  place.  The  first  lispings  of  the  muse  seem  to 
have  taken  this  form,  for  which  it  is  not  difficult  to  account,  consider- 
ing the  extraordinary  character  of  the  times.  Those  which  have  been 
preserved  to  us  in  the  various  collections,  and  which,  no  doubt,  suf- 
fered mutilation  in  their  long  traditionary  passage,  are  very  numerous, 
breathe  a  spirit  of  genuine  poetic  fervor,  religion,  patriotism,  and  chiv- 
alry, and,  being  the  product  of  a  people  more  advanced  in  civilization 
and  refinement,  are  considered  greatly  superior  in  literary  excellence 
to  the  early  Scotch  and  English  ballads.  They  are  purely  Castilian, 
and  expressive  of  the  national  sympathies  and  spirit  in  so  high  and 
perfect  a  degree  as  to  be  sung  by  the  muleteers  of  Spain  of  the 
present  day  precisely  as  they  were  heard  by  Don  Quixote  in  his  ad- 
ventures to  Toboso.  Love,  war,  religion,  chivalry,  and  heroism  are 
their  subjects ;  and,  partaking  of  the  spirit  of  those  glorious  struggles 
for  God,  liberty,  and  nationality,  which  for  so  many  hundred  years 
were  displayed  by  the  Christians  of  Spain,  they  burn  with  all  the  fires 
of  a  lofty  and  genuine  inspiration.  The  authors  and  dates  of  most  of 
these  are  unknown,  and  the  collection,  as  embraced  in  the  Romanceros 
Generates,  consists  of  above  a  thousand  poems. 

We  conclude,  however,  unwillingly,  with  the  simple  and  touchingly 
beautiful  ballad,  where  an  elder  sister  reproaches  the  younger,  on 
noticing  her  first  symptoms  of  love.  It  would  seem  that  the  tender 
inspiration  differed  little  five  hundred  years  ago  and  now,  and  its 
unmistakable  signs  are  as  recognizable  in  our  day,  in  Laura,  Mary, 
Sally,  or  Betsy,  as  in  simple  "  little  Jane  "  in  the  ballad : 

Her  sister,  Miguella, 

Once  chid  little  Jane, 
And  the  words  that  she  spoke 

Gave  a  great  deal  of  pain : 

"  You  went  yesterday  playing, 

A  child,  like  the  rest; 
And  now  you  come  out, 

More  than  other  girls,  dressed. 

16 


ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

"  You  take  pleasure  in  sighs, 

In  sad  music  delight ; 
With  the  dawning  you  rise, 

Yet  sit  up  half  the  night. 

' '  When  you  take  up  your  work, 
You  look  vacant  and  stare, 

And  gaze  on  your  sampler, 
But  miss  the  stitch  there. 

"  You're  in  love,  people  say — 
Your  actions  all  show  it  ; 

New  ways  we  shall  have 
When  mother  shall  know  it. 

"  She'll  nail  up  the  windows, 
And  lock  up  the  door ; 

Leave  to  frolic  and  dance 
She  will  give  us  no  more. 

"  Old  aunt  will  be  sent 

To  take  us  to  mass, 
And  stop  all  our  talk 

With  the  girls  as  we  pass. 

"  And  when  we  walk  out, 
She  will  bid  our  old  shrew 

Keep  a  faithful  account 
Of  what  our  eyes  do; 

"  And  mark  who  goes  by, 
If  I  peep  through  the  blind, 

And  be  sure  to  detect  us 
In  looking  behind. 

"  Thus  for  your  idle  follies 

Must  I  suffer  too, 
And  though  nothing  I've  done, 

Be  punished  like  you  !  " 

"  O  sister  Miguella, 
Your  chiding  pray  spare ; 

That  I've  troubles,  you  guess 
But  not  what  they  are. 

"  Young  Pedro  it  is, 
Old  Juan's  fair  youth ; 

But  he's  gone  to  the  wars, 
And  where  is  his  truth  ? 

"  I  loved  him  sincerely, 

I  loved  all  he  said  ; 
But  I  fear  he  is  fickle, 

I  fear  he  is  fled  ! 


THE  EARLY  LITERATURE  OF  SPAIN.  243 

"  He  is  gone  of  free  choice, 

Without  summons  or  call, 
And  'tis  foolish  to  love  him 

Or  like  him  at  all." 

"  Nay,  rather  do  thou 

To  God  pray  above, 
Lest  Pedro  return, 

And  again  you  should  love," 

Said  Miguella,  in  jest, 

As  she  answered  poor  Jane ; 
"  For  when  love  has  been  bought 

At  cost  of  such  pain, 

"  "What  hope  is  there,  sister, 

Unless  the  soul  part, 
That  the  passion  you  cherish 

Should  yield  up  your  heart  ? 

"  Your  years  will  increase, 

But  so  will  your  pains, 
•          And  this  you  may  learn 

From  the  proverb's  old  strains  : 

"  '  If  when  but  a  child 

Love's  power  you  own, 
Pray  what  will  you  do 

When  you  older  are  grown  ? '  " 


PETRARCH  AND  LAURA. 

BY  RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 

[RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  September  24,  1789.  Dur- 
ing his  childhood  his  parents  brought  him  and  their  other  children  to  Baltimore,  Md. 
After  the  death  of  his  father,  he  removed  with  his  mother  to  Augusta,  Ga.,  where  he 
studied  law.  He  was  barely  of  age  when  elected  Attorney-General  of  Georgia,  and  sub- 
sequently served,  with  distinction,  for  several  terms  in  Congress.  In  1834  he  went  to 
Europe,  where  he  remained  until  1840,  devoting  himself  specially  to  the  study  of  the 
various  European  literatures.  Removing  to  New  Orleans  in  1843,  he  was,  on  the  organ- 
ization of  the  Law  Department  of  the  University  of  Louisiana,  selected  to  fill  the  chair  of 
Constitutional  Law.  His  famous  poem,  Lament  of  the  Captive— more  popularly  known 
through  its  opening  line,  "  My  life  is  like  a  summer  rose"— gave  rise,  through  a 
learned  friend's  mischief,  to  one  of  those  acrid  controversies  which  rage  around  dis- 
puted authorship.  In  1842  he  published  a  work  in  two  volumes,  on  the  Love,  Madness, 
and  Imprisonment  of  Torquato  Tasso,  which,  while  including  choice  translations  from 
the  Italian  poet's  Canzones,  threw  a  new  light  upon  one  of  the  vexed  questions  of  ama- 
tory inspirations  of  poets.  He  also  contributed  to  the  Southern  Review  a  famous  essay 
on  Petrarch  and  Laura,  which  questions  the  claims  of  the  latter  to  her  immortal  asso- 
ciation. He  died  in  New  Orleans,  September  10,  1847.] 

OF  all  the  women  who  have  been  deified  by  their  poetic  adorers, 
Laura  seems  to  us  one  of  the  least  interesting.  Why,  then,  did 
Petrarch  love  her  ?  If  we  consult  our  own  experience  and  observa- 
tion, we  shall  not  ask  that  question,  nor  its  converse — Why  did  she 
not  love  him  ?  Love  is  commonly  the  result  of  accident  or  caprice, 
rarely  of  any  intellectual  merit.  The  hope  to  win  it  by  celebrity, 
though  frequently  indulged,  is  among  the  vainest  of  illusions,  and 
Laura  may  have  smiled  at  such  a  folly  without  being  unusually  stupid 
or  insensible.  The  greater  part  of  her  sex,  like  the  greater  part  of 
ours,  have  no  just  conception  or  ardent  love  of  glory.  In  general, 
they  hold  immortality  as  cheap  as  the  mother  of  mankind  or  the 
widow  of  Napoleon. 

There  have  been  remarkable  and  splendid  examples  to  the  contrary, 
it  is  true ;  but  fortunately  or  unfortunately  for  us,  and  for  themselves, 
the  mass  remains  unchanged.  Many  have  indeed  been  inseparably 
associated  with  undying  names,  often  undeservedly,  sometimes  in  their 
own  despite ;  but  most,  being  of  the  earth,  earthy,  would  have  lost 
that  privilege,  had  not  the  weakness  of  vanity  or  tenderness  preserved 
the  memorials  of  their  triumph,  and  thus  rescued  them  from  merited 
oblivion.  Nina,  who  would  be  called  nothing  but  the  Nina  of  Dante, 
is  the  exception,  not  the  rule.  Even  she,  perhaps,  was  thought  very 


PETRARCH  AND  LAURA.  245 

naughty  in  her  lifetime,  and  if  she  sacrificed  temporary  good  repute 
to  long  ages  of  celebrity,  had  nearly  made  the  sacrifice  in  vain,  since, 
though  a  poetess  herself,  she  was  so  little  of  a  critic  as  to  choose 
Dante  da  Maiano,  an  indifferent  versifier.  Far  be  it  from  us  to 
malign  the  fairer  part  of  creation,  to  whom  every  rhymer  is  a  born 
bondsman ;  but,  in  truth  and  prose,  the  condition  of  woman  excludes 
her  for  the  most  part  from  these  lofty  aspirations.  Shut  up  within 
the  narrow  circle  of  petty  vanities,  household  cares,  frivolous  amuse- 
ments, devotional  exercises,  and  trivial  occupations,  she  rarely  feels 
inclined  to  look  beyond  it,  and  if  she  does,  is  visited  with  the  anger  of 
all  her  sisterhood.  There  is  little  reason  to  believe  that  Laura  burst 
the  spell,  or  was  in  any  wise  exempted  from  the  common  destiny,  ex- 
cept by  the  fortune  of  a  more  illustrious  lover.  Her  long-continued 
system  of  alternate  encouragement  and  repulse,  so  delicately  managed 
and  adroitly  blended,  as  always  to  keep  alive  his  hopes,  yet  always 
disappoint  them,  may  not  deserve  to  be  stigmatized  as  the  refinement 
of  heartless  coquetry,  but  certainly  excludes  the  idea  of  warm  and 
sincere  attachment.  The  very  ascendency  she  acquired  over  him,  by 
her  constant  self-possession  and  invariable  calmness,  indicates  the 
action  of  a  more  phlegmatic,  on  a  more  impassioned  nature.  For  the 
rest,  discretion,  sweetness,  good  sense,  religious  faith,  and  serenity 
make  up  the  sum  of  an  amiable  and  tranquil  disposition,  as  feminine 
as  you  please,  and  as  remote  as  possible  from  all  our  early  romantic 
conceptions.  .  .  . 

Could  the  veil  of  ages  be  withdrawn,  she  might  be  found  either 
frail  or  cold,  and,  whichever  the  alternative,  must  lose  a  portion  of 
her  worshippers.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  those  who  are  not  satisfied 
with  either  part  of  this  dilemma  have  still  open  to  their  faith  the 
further  supposition,  that  Laura,  tenderly  loving  Petrarch,  concealed 
or  governed  her  affection  for  one-and-twenty  years,  never  driving  him 
to  despair  by  her  rigor,  nor  betraying  the  secret  of  her  weakness. 
But  whether  she  was  enamored  and  virtuous,  or  only  coquettish,  pru- 
dent, or  indifferent,  it  must  not  be  inferred  she  took  no  pleasure  in  her 
lover's  praises.  Who  is  offended  by  a  delicate  and  well-turned  compli- 
ment ? — or  what  woman,  however  insensible  to  the  beauties  of  poetry, 
ever  failed  to  admire  a  sonnet  to  her  own  eyebrow?  Love  is  not 
kindled  by  rhyme,  but  self-love  is  fed  by  it ;  nor  should  we  without 
reflection  condemn  Laura  for  not  valuing  more  highly,  or  making  a 
more  grateful  return  for  the  offering.  We  behold  in  Petrarch  the 
restorer  of  learning,  the  creator  of  a  new  poetry,  the  beautifier  of  a 
language  which  is  all  melody.  She  saw  in  him  only  a  persevering 
sonneteer,  who  annoyed  her  with  complaints,  or  soothed  her  by  flat- 
tery. To  us  he  appears  with  the  glory  of  five  centuries.  Could  he 


246  ESS  A  TS— MIXED. 

have  laid  it  all  at  her  feet,  possibly  she  might  have  vielded.  With  the 
confidence  of  genius  he  often  promised  her  immortality.  But  how 
could  she  believe  him  i  Did  he  always  believe  himself  ?  So  far  from 
it,  he  at  one  time  set  little  value  on  his  love  verses,  building  his  hopes 
of  fame  upon  his  Latin  poems. 

The  lady  whose  apotheosis  has  been  made  by  the  love  and  poetry 
of  Petrarch,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  was  anything  but  happy. 
His  devotion,  which  alone  has  embalmed  her  memory,  we  may  readily 
suppose,  brought  upon  her  both  envy  and  censure.  The  propriety  of 
her  conduct  is  said,  indeed,  to  have  been  such  as  to  defy  the  gossips 
of  Avignon.  The  offence  of  being  beautiful  and  idolized,  however, 
is  rarely  expiated  even  by  an  abandonment  of  the  heart's  affections. 
Our  contemporaries  ever  judge  us  harshly.  The  living  rarely  get 
credit  for  their  real  AvortlL  Xay,  they  are  often  hated  for  the  very 
virtues  by  which  they  eclipse  others,  while  in  the  eyes  of  posterity 
every  fault  and  almost  every  crime  is  absolved  by  greatness.  Laura, 
we  may  believe,  if  she  really  loved  Petrarch,  sacrificed  her  attachment 
to  duty  or  to  reputation,  though  she  was  unable  or  unwilling  to  forego 
the  incense  offered  to  her  charms.  The  sacrifice  was  in  vain,  save  to 
her  own  conscience,  for  Ugo,  her  husband,  was  harsh  and  jealous,  and 
so  little  attached  to  her  memory  that  he  married  shortly  after  her 
death ;  while  her  daughter,  Ogiera,  so  far  forgot  the  maternal  exam- 
ple, even  in  her  mothers  lifetime,  that  the  honor  of  the  family  obliged 
them  to  shut  her  up  in  a  convent.  Thus  the  celebrity  of  Laura  arises 
from  a  homage  which  it  was  weakness,  perhaps  worse,  to  allow,  while 
her  virtues  were  inadequate  to  insure  her  domestic  happiness,  and 
most  certainly  alone  would  never  have  preserved  her  from  oblivion. 
So  strange  are  the  caprices  of  fame  and  fortune,  so  uncertain  and 
inconsequent  the  judgments  of  mankind. 


MACBETH.* 

BY   WILLIAM   PKE8T03f  JOHSTSIOSL 

[  WnxiA  *  PRESTOS  Jonxsioy.  son  of  General  Albert  Sidney  Johnston,  was  bora  in 
Louisville,  Ky.,  January  5,  1831.  In  1852  he  was  graduated  from  Yale  College,  and 
later  received  his  diploma  from  the  law  School  of  the  University  of  Louisville.  In  that 
city  he  practised  law  nntfl  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War,  when  he  entered  the  Confed- 
erate  Army  as  Major  of  the  First  Kentucky  Regiment  of  Infantry.  He  was  soon  pro- 
moted to  the  Lieutenant-Colonelcy  of  that:  regiment,  and  latterly  seWed  as  aide-de-camp 
on  the  staff  of  Jefferson  Davis.  After  the  war,  he  practised  law  for  one  year  in  Louis- 
ville ;  then  he  was  called  to  the  chair  of  History  and  English  Literature  in  Washington 
College,  Lexington,  Va.  In  1880  he  accepted  the  presidency  of  the  Louisiana  State 
University,  and  in  January,  1883,  when  the  University  of  Louisiana  was  reorganized  as 
the  Tulane  University,  he  was  elected  president  of  the  institution.  This  position  he  still 
holds.  He  is  a  Wteratemr  and  poet  of  considerable  ability.  His  Life  of  Albert  Sidney 
Johnston  (1858)  deserves  as  high  a  place  in  American  literature  as  Partons  Life  mT 
Andre*  Jackson  or  Colton's  Life  of  Hemry  day.  It  is  written  in  a  style  remarkable 
for  its  transparency,  its  earnestness,  its  elegance  :  and  most  critics  agree  that  it  is  the 
most  "  satisfactory"  biography  of  a  general  of  the  ex-Confederacy  that  has  yet  appeared. 
Colonel  Johnston's  Prototype  of  Hamlet,  and  Other  SAaiaeqiearim  PnMtm*tl*W)  places 
him  among  the  first  Shakespearian  scholars  of  the  times.  Commenting  upon  the  work, 
Professor  Lonnsbury  of  Yale  says :  "  I  was  glad  to  find  Colonel  Johnston  entertaining  the 
same  feeling  about  XaebctA  that  I  do.  .  .  .  I  was  much  struck  by  his  argument  in 
regard  to  the  first  Hamlet.  To  me  ft  seems  the  strongest  presentation  of  the  evidence 
in  favor  of  the  Shakespearian  authorship  of  that  production  with  which  I  am  familiar."] 

WHETHER  Madbeth  is  the  greatest  of  Shakespeare's  plays  or  not,  I 
think  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  his  greatest  poem.  This  is  the 
more  remarkable  as  it  is  probable  from  internal  evidences  that  it  never 
received  the  finishing  touches  so  necessary  for  the  perfection  of  a 
work  of  art*  but  stands  like  some  colossal  statue — the  dream  of  a  seer 
— the  stupendous  outline  of  a  great  soul-study,  conceived  in  its  entirety 
in  the  mind  of  the  artist.  We  discover  gaps  in  the  plot,  confusion  in 
the  metaphor,  details  half  completed,  and  a  lack  of  those  final  thoughts 
which,  like  sweetest  roses  before  a  killing  frost,  blossomed  forth  in 
his  last  version  of  JTamftt.  But  this  very  incompleteness  compels  us. 
as  it  were,  to  enter  the  charmed  circle  of  the  poet's  imaginings,  view 
the  author  s  mind  in  the  processes  of  creation,  and  share  with  him  in 
the  solemn  mystery  of  the  production  of  this  grand  drama. 

It  may  be,  as  Swinburne  suggests,,  **  that  the  sole  text  we  possess 
of  Macbeth  has  not  been  interpolated;  but  mutilated."  He  describes  it 

*  [The  Prototype  of  HamM,  a*d  Other  Skatepearia*  PnUtt 


2-tS  ESSAYS— JllXED. 

as  -  piteonsly  rent  and  ragged  and  clipped  and  garbled  in  some  of  its 
earlier  scenes;  the  rough  construction  and  the  poltfoot  metre,  lame 
sense  and  limping  verse,  each  maimed  and  mangled  subject  of  players' 
and  printers*  most  treasonable  tyranny  contending  as  it  were  to  seem 
harsher  than  the  other.**  Yet,  along  with  the  wise  and  deep-seeing 
authors  before  cited,  this  most  musical  of  critics  tells  us,  "But  if 
Ctthdfo  be  the  most  pathetic,  King  Lear  the  most  terrible,  Hamlet  the 
subtlest  and  deepest,  work  of  Shakespeare,  the  highest  in  abrupt  and 
steep  simplicity  of  epic  tragedy  is  Macbeth" 

In  the  spirit  of  this  suggestion  I  am  prepared  to  admit  that  Macbeth 
may  It  (for  I  dread  dogmatism)  rather  the  torso  of  some  masterpiece 
of  our  dramatic  Phidias  than  the  uncompleted  ideal  of  his  tragic  muse. 
But,  dropping  metaphor,  the  greatness  of  the  events,  the  rapidity  of 
the  action,  the  compression  of  the  thought,  the  fervor  of  the  diction, 
and  the  simplicity  and  directness  of  the  moral  movement  render  it 
a  noble  example  of  tragic  art.  Macbeth  is  not  only,  as  Hallam  called 
it,  the  great  epic  drama,  but  also  the  great  heroic  drama.  The  action 
is  shrouded  in  mysterious  gloom,  or  lurid  with  an  unholy  supernatural 
light ;  the  persons  of  the  drama  move  in  shadow,  vast,  sombre,  and 
majestic,  like  beings  of  some  older  and  larger  creation.  As  in  the 
Iliad^  Achilles,  Ulysses,  and  Agamemnon  deal  with  the  Immortals, 
give  the  sword-thrust  or  receive  the  wound,  so  when  Banquo  and 
stout  Macduff,  the  saintly  Duncan  and  bloody  Macbeth,  enter  the 
field  of  vision,  the  meaner  race  of  mortals  vanishes  from  sight.  Hence 
the  artistic  effects  of  this  play  are  not  produced  by  nice  gradations 
of  shade,  but  by  strong  contrasts  of  color  in  scene,  incidents,  circum- 
stance; and  character.  The  elements  are  in  tumult ;  and  the  landscape, 
black  beneath  the  lowering  storm-cloud,  is,  nevertheless,  belted  with 
peaceful  bands  of  sunshine.  Fell  murder  and  dire  cruelty  work  out 
their  purposes  on  innocence  and  loyalty,  and  final  retribution  is  met 
*•  dareful,  beard  to  beard,**  by  defiant  remorse.  Macbetfi  is,  indeed,  a 
tremendous  epic  in  dramatic  form — an  epic  in  the  rush  and  swirl  of 
its  objective  action,  but  a  very  paean  of  subjective  evolution  struck  from 
the  fervid  lyre  of  a  heart  white  hoL  But  implicit  within  the  folds  of 
its  royal  drapery  of  poetry,  indeed,  at  the  very  heart  of  its  ancient 
legend,  couches  one  of  the  problems  of  destiny — a  mystery  of  the 
human  soul — which  we  would  do  well  to  pluck  forth  and  lay  bare  to 
the  scrutiny  of  our  intelligence. 

I  have  not  selected  this  tragedy  because  its  problem  is  the  most 
difficult  to  solve,  for,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  the  most  obvious ;  but  it  is 
one  of  the  grandest  and  most  pathetic.  It  is  the  old  story  of  tempta- 
tion, crime,  and  retributive  justice.  Hamlet  and  Jfacbetft  were  finished 
almost  about  the  same  time;  Hamlet^  as  an  idea  which  had  grown 


MACBETH.  249 

through  a  series  of  years  and  been  worked  out  to  its  consummation : 
and  Ma&etA,  probably  suggested  by  it,  hurled  from  the  crater  of  the 
author's  imagination  into  the  empyrean.  Together  they  constitute 
the  obverse  and  reverse  of  the  heaven-stamped  medal  we  call  the 
human  will  They  are  psychological  complements  of  each  other.  In 
Hamlet  the  renunciation  of  the  human  wfll  is  balanced  by  the  despot- 
ism of  wfll  in  Macbeth.  In  Hamlet,  "  the  courtier,  soldier,  scholar, 
the  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state,"  is  "quite,  quite  down"— 
and  why  ?  Because  a  morbid  conscience  and  irresolute  heart  keep  his 
subtle  intellect  in  play,  until  the  moment  for  action  has  passed,  and 
his  vacillation  overwhelms  with  ruin  all  his  house.  But  the  Thane  of 
Glamis,  audacious,  merciless,  and  prompt,  closes  with  his  opportunity, 
and  on  the  instant  puts  his  soul  past  surgery.  All  must  bend  or  break 
before  the  energy  of  his  tremendous  will  and  his  lawless  lust  of  domin- 
ion. But  Xemesis  follows  him  too,  and  his  crime  works  out  its 
inevitable  penally. 

But  let  us  come  now  to  the  play  itself,  and  consider  the  material 
and  web  of  the  plot,  and  how  its  moral  purpose  is  evolved.  A  medi- 
aeval legend  from  Holinshed's  dry  Chronicle  furnishes  the  incidents  of 
the  story.  Following  this  outline,  but  weaving  into  it  striking  fea- 
tures from  other  similar  tales,  the  author  wins  the  credence  of  his 
audience  by  an  apparent  adherence  to  historical  fact ;  while  his  perfect 
dramatic  instinct  teaches  him  to  produce  the  prof oundest  impressions 
by  conforming  these  rigid  materials  to  the  standard  of  ideal,  universal, 
essential  truth.  Here  is  the  story  of  MacbetA  :  Duncan,  the  saintly 
but  feeble  King  of  Scotland,  is  assailed  by  rebellion  and  invasion, 
which  are  repelled  by  his  two  generals,  Macbeth  and  Banquo,  who 
win  public  commendation  and  the  rewards  of  the  King.  While  return- 
ing from  victory,  they  meet  upon  a  blasted  heath  the  three  Weird 
Sisters,  who  hail  Macbeth  as  Thane  of  Glamis,  Thane  of  Cawdor,  and 
King  of  Scotland  hereafter,  and  predict  for  Banquo  that  his  offspring 
shall  ascend  the  throne.  Banquo's  sturdy  honesty  rejects  the  bait, 
but  Macbeth' s  restless  ambition  hovers  around  the  unholy  prediction. 
The  messengers  of  the  King  meet  him,  and  announce  that  the  King 
has  given  him  the  titles  and  estates  of  the  rebellious  and  vanquished 
Thane  of  Cawdor.  Already,  by  inheritance,  he  was  Thane  of  Glamis. 

••  Two  truths  are  told. 
As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 
Of  the  imperial  theme. " 

A  fiendish  suggestion  has  planted  in  his  breast  a  wicked  thought. 
He  entertains  it  there,  and  it  gathers  and  grows  into  a  purpose  to  ful- 
fil the  prophecy.  While  thisls  taking  shape,  a  fatal  hint  infuses  the 


250  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

poison  of  lawless  ambition  into  the  veins  of  his  wife,  and  the  "  dear 
partner  of  his  greatness"  becomes  the  partner  of  his  guilt.  When  he 
hesitates,  she  urges  him  to  the  execution  of  the  crime,  through  which 
he  will  ascend  the  throne.  He  avails  himself  of  a  friendly  visit  of  the 
King  to  murder  him ;  and  then,  to  conceal  his  own  guilt,  stabs  the 
sleeping  chamberlains.  Duncan's  sons,  alarmed  for  their  safety,  fly. 
Macbeth  charges  them  with  the  murder,  and  himself  ascends  the 
throne.  His  usurpation  now  seems  established,  and  all  goes  well  with 
him ;  but  he  cannot  feel  secure  while  Banquo  lives,  for  Banquo  wit- 
nessed his  temptation  and  may  profit  by  his  crime,  while  his  stainless 
integrity  stands  like  a  perpetual  reproach  to  Macbeth' s  disloyalty  and 
guilt.  He  must  die.  Banquo  is  waylaid  and  assassinated ;  but  his 
"  blood-boltered  "  ghost  rises  at  a  royal  banquet  to  shake  the  soul  of 
Macbeth  with  horror.  In  his  desperate  desire  to  search  out  the  future, 
the  murderous  usurper  seeks  the  witches,  and,  lured  by  their  infernal 
lights,  he  butchers  in  cold  blood  the  wife  and  children  of  Macduff, 
Thane  of  Fife,  who  has  fled  to  the  true  prince,  Malcolm,  in  England. 
But  this  cruelty  does  not  prosper.  Suspicion,  hatred,  and  horror  follow 
him.  His  wife,  pursued  by  remorse,  kills  herself.  And  at  last,  cheated 
by  the  fiends  he  trusted,  the  tyrant  falls  in  battle  by  the  hand  of  Mac- 
duff,  and  the  son  of  the  murdered  Duncan  ascends  the  throne.  From 
these  simple  materials,  the  skilful  hand  and  informing  spirit  of  the 
great  artist  built  up  a  royal  palace  in  the  realm  of  thought. 

The  felicity  of  Shakespeare's  genius  shows  itself  in  the  selection  of 
the  time  and  place  and  plot  of  this  tragedy.  Surely  these  are  not 
accidents.  The  venue  is  laid  in  the  border-land  of  fact  and  fable. 
Macbeth  was  a  contemporary  of  that  Edward  the  Confessor  whose 
reign  lingered  for  generations  in  the  fancy  of  Saxon  England  as  a 
golden  age.  It  was  to  Shakespeare  a  heroic  age ;  and  the  figures  and 
events  of  his  creation  loom  up  loftily  through  twilight  and  mist,  too 
large  and  vague  perhaps,  did  not  human  passions  so  sharply  define 
them. 

But  the  place  as  well  as  the  time  of  the  drama  evoke  a  vivid  inter- 
est. Scotland,  though  neighboring,  was  yet  almost  unknown  to  Eng- 
lishmen of  that  day,  and  a  series  of  tragic  events  and  the  calamities  of 
kings  had  just  linked  its  history  with  that  of  England.  James  I.  had 
but  just  come  to  the  throne ;  and,  to  Southern  eyes,  Scotland  lay  like 
a  mountain  lake,  half  robed  in  romance  and  half  veiled  in  mystery. 
Under  the  enchanter's  wand,  this  gloomy  background  faded  into  a 
land  of  shadows,  the  curtain  of  the  unseen  world  was  lifted,  and  the 
powers  of  the  air  mingled  with  human  actors  as  persons  of  the  drama. 

The  staple  of  the  story,  too,  is  not  without  strong  parallelisms  to 
events  which  had  recently  greatly  excited  the  public  mind.  Earl 


MACBETH.  251 

Gowrie's  conspiracy,  aimed  at  the  life  of  James  I.,  was  still  fresh  in 
the  memories  of  men.  The  plots  known  as  "  the  Main "  and  "  the 
Bye,"  for  the  murder  of  the  king  and  the  enthronement  of  his  cousin, 
Arabella  Stuart,  had  lately  occurred ;  and  the  trials  of  Sir  Walter 
Kaleigh  and  others  had  awakened  the  liveliest  interest  touching  regi- 
cide and  the  breach  of  a  clear  title  to  the  crown.  If,  as  best  conject- 
ured, this  play  was  completed  early  in  1606,  then  it  came  just  on  the 
heel  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  which  had  been  fixed  for  November  5, 
1605  ;  and  the  trials  of  the  wretched  fanatics  who  had  compassed  the 
destruction  of  King  and  Parliament  had  made  the  popular  mind 
familiar  with  projects  of  slaughter  and  the  casuistry  of  assassination. 
Shakespeare's  treatment  of  his  theme  commended  itself  not  only  to  the 
prince,  but  to  the  people  ;  and  while  he  adapted  it  to  the  spirit  of  the 
age,  and  even  to  the  passing  mood  of  the  public,  he  evinced  his  trans- 
cendent genius  by  producing  a  poem  of  perennial  interest,  the  spectacle 
of  a  titanic  nature  utterly  cast  down  and  ruined  in  its  great  spiritual 
struggle.  Neither  in  prologue  nor  in  epilogue,  nor  in  the  mouth  of  any 
interlocutor,  does  the  author  announce  the  moral  of  the  play.  Yet  he 
who  runs  may  read.  It  is  the  contest  for  the  soul  of  a  man.  The 
powers  of  darkness  wrestle  with  and  vanquish  him. 

We  can  properly  understand  this  tragedy  only  by  first  understand- 
ing its  supernaturalism.  To  do  this  aright  we  must  look  at  it  from 
the  author's  standpoint.  There  is  scarcely  any  subject  in  literature 
more  fascinating  than  the  study  of  post-media3val  supernaturalism  as 
embodied  in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare.  This  is  an  age  and  country 
of  a  skepticism  so  general  and  pervading  that  we  find  it  hard  to  con- 
ceive of  the  immense  mass  of  superstition  which  overlaid  the  Chris- 
tianity of  the  Middle  Ages.  Folklore,  the  hierarchy  of  angels  and 
demons,  the  realm  of  faery,  the  habits  and  manners  of  ghosts ;  witch- 
craft with  its  laws,  customs,  cultus,  and  criminal  practices;  augu- 
ries, oracles,  sorcery,  and  other  manifestations  of  occult  power ;  spells, 
talismans,  elixirs,,  and  alchemy  conjuring  with  the  unknown  and  unsub- 
dued forces  of  nature ;  astrology  and  the  influence  of  the  stars ;  the 
meaning  of  dreams  and  visions ;  in  a  word,  the  whole  world  of  the 
unreal  had  been  systematized  into  a  complete  code  and  body  of  super- 
natural mythology,  believed  alike  by  peasant  and  prince,  by  learned 
and  unlearned,  and  by  all  classes  of  the  community.  Kelics  of  this 
remain  imbedded  in  our  earlier  literature,  like  flies  in  amber ;  and 
other  relics  still  yet  crop  out  in  the  fancies,  the  follies,  and  the  crimes 
of  the  present  generation.  This  vast  machinery  of  mythology,  which 
then  represented  to  the  popular  mind  the  secondary  causes  through 
which  God  governs  his  universe,  seems  to  us  but  the  kaleidoscopic 
phases  of  a  disordered  dream,  a  mirage,  "  an  unsubstantial  pageant." 


252  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

But  to  our  ancestors  it  was  as  real  and  solid  as  the  rock-ribbed 
earth. 

In  Shakespeare's  day,  the  British  people  was  in  the  prime  of  national 
manhood.  The  light  was  breaking,  and  the  emancipated  human  intel- 
lect was  waking  from  the  dreams  of  a  thousand  years.  The  prophetic 
soul  of  Shakespeare  accepted  the  popular  beliefs  as  modes  of  expres- 
sion, and  employed  them  as  symbols  for  the  unseen  forces  of  nature 
and  spirit,  in  which  dwell  activities  more  potent  than  even  supersti- 
tion could  conjure  up.  And  it  was  through  this  high  poetic  and  phil- 
osophic power,  this  eminent  gift  of  imagination  and  understanding 
working  together,  that  he  produced  the  terrible  and  highly  idealized 
conception  of  supernatural  agency  embodied  in  the  Weird  Sisters. 
These  and  Banquo's  ghost,  the  apparitions,  the  omens,  the  air-drawn 
dagger,  the  mysterious  voice,  are  but  the  signs  and  formulas  through 
which  he  represents  the  problem  of  evil,  with  which  Macbeth  grap- 
ples, and  which  he  solves  to  his  own  temporal  and  eternal  ruin. 

A  canon  of  Shakespearian  criticism,  somewhat  fanciful,  perhaps, 
has  been  advanced,  that  the  first  scene,  or  even  the  first  words,  of  a 
play,  will  often  strike  the  keynote  of  the  entire  action.  In  Macbeth, 
certainly,  they  have  a  curious  significance.  The  enchanter  waves  his 
wand,  and  the  tragedy  begins.  Where?  "In  a  desert  place,"  or 
u  open  place,"  as  some  will  have  it ;  "  with  thunder  and  lightning." 
Is  it  on  land  or  sea,  or  do  the  witches  "  hover  through  the  fog  and 
filthy  air  "  ?  Whether  we  picture  it  as  a  barren  heath,  or  above  the 
ferment  of  the  deep,  we  know  that  "  the  secret,  black,  and  midnight 
hags  "  are  gathered  on  the  confines  of  hell,  with  the  gates  ajar.  Amid 
the  tumult  of  the  elements,  and  the  mutterings  of  familiar  spirits,  the 
ominous  question  is  shrieked  forth, 

"When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ?  " 

This  is  answered  by  these  "  juggling  fiends,"  when  they  next  ap- 
pear as  tempters  of  Macbeth.  The  fine,  lyrical  movement  of  the  scene 
reaches  its  highest  pitch  in  the  diabolic  suggestion  of  the  chorus : 

"  Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair." 

This  phrase  symbolizes  the  reversal  of  the  divine  order  of  nature, 
the  love  of  evil  for  its  own  sake,  the  unforgivable  sin.  That  this  is 
not  a  mere  conceit  is  evinced  by  the  very  first  words  that  Macbeth 
utters : 

"  So  foul  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen." 

This  is  the  human  response  to  the  infernal  suggestion,  and  points 
to  the  moral  confusion  which  infects  the  fairest  state  of  man.  This 


MACBETH.  253 

cannot  be  accidental.  It  is  but  one  instance  among  many  in  Shake- 
speare where  the  echo  of  the  mysterious  footfall  of  the  future  is  heard 
by  an  inner  sense,  and  the  word  of  unconscious  prophecy  is  uttered. 
By  this  I  do  not  mean  those  omens  and  prodigies  cited  after  Duncan's 
death,  nor  the  predictions  of  the  witches,  but  something  subtler,  akin 
to  the  derided  and  dreaded  presentiment  of  evil. 

Attention  has  been  called  to  Shakespeare's  art  in  opening  the  play 
with  words  that  are  in  fact  a  prelude  to  its  action. 

A  curious  illustration  of  the  ineptitude  of  much  of  the  comment 
and  emendation  of  Shakespeare  will  be  seen  in  the  following  extract 
from  Story's  Conversations  in  a  Studio  (Vol.  1,  p.  94),  showing  how 
another  poet  can  stumble  as  to  this  very  opening. 

"Nothing  can  be  more  absurd  in  many  respects  than  Burger's 
translation  of  Macbeth.  Poet  though  he  was,  he  seems  to  have  lost 
all  sense  of  poetry  or  reason  in  this  translation,  in  which,  in  fact,  he 
so  ludicrously  travesties  the  original,  that  one  cannot  but  smile  at  the 
absurdities  he  introduces.  The  fact  is  that  Burger,  who  was  a  very 
vain  man,  thought  himself  far  superior  to  Shakespeare,  and  kindly 
assisted  him,  and  eked  out  his  shortcomings.  Think  of  this  opening 
in  Macbeth  : 

'  SOLDIER.     Hold  !  not  in  such  a  hurry,  good  sir. 
GUARD.    Now,  then  ? 

SOLDIER.     I  prithee,  what  is  it  you  will  tell  the  king  ? 
GUARD.     That  the  battle  is  won. 
SOLDIER.     But  I  have  been  lying. 

GUARD.     Lying  rascal!     Then  thou  art  indeed  with  thy  wounds  a  desperate 
joker.' 

"  This  is  a  literal  translation  of  one  of  Burger's  improvements  to 
Shakespeare." 

An  instance  of  the  dramatic  second-sight  mentioned  above  is  ex- 
hibited in  Duncan's  comment  on  the  account  of  Cawdor's  repentant 
death : 

' '  There's  no  art 

To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face ; 
He  was  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  built 
An  absolute  trust — " 

Just  here  the  new  Thane  of  Cawdor  enters  with  murder  and  treason 
in  his  heart,  interrupting  the  reflection,  while  the  King  verifies  and 
exemplifies  in  his  words  and  conduct  the  aphorism  he  has  just  uttered. 

Again,  where  Banquo  for  the  last  time  leaves  the  King,  he  says : 

"A  heavy  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me, 
And  yet  I  would  not  sleep." 


254  ESSAYS— MIXED. 

Here  there  is  something  more  than  meets  the  ear,  for  the  next 
moment  Macbeth,  charged  with  murderous  purpose,  greets  him.  In 
Act  I.,  scene  2,  Duncan  begins,  "  What  bloody  man  is  this  ? "  On  this 
Bodenstadt  comments,  "  This  word  '  bloody '  reappears  on  almost  every 
page,  and  runs  like  a  red  thread  through  the  whole  piece.  In  no  other 
of  Shakespeare's  dramas  is  it  so  frequent."  Again,  Macbeth,  while 
plotting  Banquo's  murder,  urges  him  to  attend  the  banquet.  "  Fail 
not  our  feast,"  he  says.  Banquo's  promise,  "  My  lord,  I  will  not,"  is 
fulfilled  in  a  sense  unexpected  by  either,  or  by  the  reader,  when  his 
"  blood-boltered "  ghost  rises  at  the  appointed  place  to  shake  with 
horror  the  marble  heart  of  merciless  Macbeth.  Our  secret  sins  find 
us  out.  Retribution  is  the  debt  never  repudiated.  The  devil  keeps 
his  appointments. 

The  manner  in  which  our  poet  has  portrayed  the  Weird  Sisters  is 
but  a  solitary  proof  among  many  how  far  he  was  superior  in  real  moral 
insight  to  the  greatest  even  of  the  great  poets  who  are  sometimes  named 
with  him.  Milton,  most  learned  and  religious,  most  metaphysical  and 
most  musical  of  poets,  conceives  Satan  as  the  archangel  ruined,  who 
wins  our  human  sympathy  by  the  dazzling  sublimity  of  his  super- 
human pride  and  despair.  But  Shakespeare's  clearer  and  nobler  per- 
ception of  the  essential  ugliness  and  deformity  of  sin  compels  him  to 
strike  nearer  the  truth.  The  Weird  Sisters,  who  embody  the  idea  of 
evil,  are  beastly  and  loathsome,  as  well  as  terrible. 

The  beings  called  in  this  tragedy  "  the  Weird  Sisters  "  are  not  the 
malignant,  yet  impotent,  old  witches  against  whom  the  royal  demon- 
ologist  levelled  the  statute  of  1604.  Nor  are  they  mere  abstractions, 
personifications  of  the  wicked  promptings  of  Macbeth's  heart.  Though 
"  bubbles  of  the  air,"  they  are  not  "  fantastical."  Real  essences, 
prompters  of  sin,  ministers  of  the  evil  one,  and,  like  the  Scandinavian 
Valkyrias,  "  posters  of  the  land  and  sea,"  they  brood  over  fields  of 
slaughter,  stir  the  elements  to  strife,  and  derange  the  moral  and 
material  order  of  the  world.  Such  tasks  are  the  work  of  strong 
fiends ;  but,  as  if  in  illustration  of  the  essential  connection  of  all  evil, 
they  do  its  drudgery  with  zeal.  They  mix  the  hell-broth  of  foul, 
venomous  things,  inflict  and  gloat  over  pain  and  misery,  and  yet  are 
full  of  petty  spite  and  filthiness.  They  are  tempters  to  sin,  and  can 
produce  human  suffering ;  but  they  have  no  compulsion  for  the  soul, 
and  recoil  baffled  from  the  assault  on  innocence.  When  the  Weird 
Sisters  struck  the  chord  of  unlawful  aspiration  in  the  bosom  of  Mac- 
beth, it  swelled  into  a  symphony  of  treason  and  murder.  But  no 
irresistible  necessity  constrained  him.  Not  fate,  but  his  own  free  will, 
determined  his  downward  career.  And  this  is  shown  in  that  consum- 
mate touch  of  art  by  which  Banquo  is  placed  by  the  side  of  Macbeth 


MACBETH.  255 

and  subjected  to  similar  temptations,  yet  preserves  his  integrity  un- 
sullied, and  dies  a  martyr  to  his  loyalty.  The  mousing  owls  of  Satan, 
the  revolting  caricature  of  humanity  in  its  possible  degradation,  have 
merely  to  offer  Macbeth  the  vast  suggestion,  and  its  echoes  reverberate 
through  his  hollow  and  arid  heart,  until  unhallowed  revery  grows 
into  guilty  intention,  and  this  ripens  into  crime.  Thomas  a"  Kempis 
says  well : 

"For  first  a  bare  thought  comes  to  the  mind;  then  a  strong 
imagination ;  afterwards  delight,  and  evil  motion  and  consent."  So 
was  it  with  Macbeth.  He  withstood  not  the  beginnings  of  evil,  and 
the  end  was  utter  ruin. 

A  true  conception  of  the  character  of  Macbeth,  in  whose  soul  the 
strife  is  waged,  is  necessary  to  grasp  the  real  purpose  of  the  play. 
This  we  may  learn  from  the  estimate  put  upon  him  by  the  popular 
voice,  by  his  intimates,  and  by  her  to  whom  he  had  revealed  "  the 
naked  frailties  "  of  his  soul.  His  soliloquies,  too,  unlock  secret  cham- 
bers into  which  the  observer  looks  with  sidelong  glances.  There  he 
discerns  the  difference  between  this  man  before  and  after  temptation, 
which,  at  the  last,  is  the  immeasurable  distance  between  innocence 
and  guilt,  between  a  soul  under  probation  and  a  soul  betrayed  and 
lost. 

When  the  play  opens  he  was  to  his  followers  and  peers,  "  brave 
Macbeth,"  "  valor's  minion,"  "  Bellona's  bridegroom."  The  King 
calls  him  "  valiant  cousin,"  "  worthy  gentleman,"  "  noble  Macbeth," 
"  peerless  kinsman."  In  his  own  words,  he  had 

"  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people." 

His  wife,  who  thought  she  knew  the  man,  says  of  him  in  her  first 

soliloquy : 

"Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature. 
It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
To  catch  the  nearest  way:  thou  wouldst  be  great  ; 
Art  not  without  ambition,  but  without 
The  illness  should  attend  it;  what  thou  wouldst  highly, 
That  wouldst  thou  holily ;  wouldst  not  play  false, 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win." 

With  full  allowance  for  the  energy  of  the  speaker's  passion  and 
ambition,  this  careful  analysis  portrays  a  mixed  character.  Macbeth's 
own  ideal  of  himself  is  lofty : 

"  I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man; 
Who  dares  do  more  is  none." 

The  air-drawn  dagger  and  the  voice  that  "  cried  to  all  the  house," 


258  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

Duncan's  innocence  casts  its  beams  upon  the  portals  of  that  grim 
abode  of  conspiracy  and  sudden  death.  With  absolute  trust  and 
courtly  grace  he  enters  the  castle.  The  confiding  gentleness  with 
which  he  commits  himself  to  the  hands  of  his  assassins  is  very  touch- 
ing. 

But  once  within  the  sepulchral  jaws  of  this  treasonable  den,  and 
all  is  changed.  Murder  lurks  in  the  murky  air.  No  supernatural 
machinery  is  needed  to  show  that  here  the  fiends  have  mastery.  The 
impulse  has  been  given,  and  man's  wickedness  works  out  the  plot.  In 
a  gray  and  vaulted  hall,  dimly  we  discern  two  figures  whispering  in 
shadow,  and  an  air-drawn  dagger — "  on  its  blade  and  dudgeon  gouts  of 
blood  which  were  not  so  before  " — and  then, 

"  Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  '  Sleep  no  more, 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep.'  " 

Duncan  lies  murdered  in  his  bed.  Macbeth  had  made  his  choice, 
and  henceforth  to  him, 

"  Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair." 

But  he  had  not  done  "the  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  off"  on 
kinsman  and  king  without  hesitation  and  debate.  The  progress  and 
growth  of  evil  is  powerfully  illustrated  in  the  reaction  of  guilt  by 
which  Macbeth  and  his  wife  mutually  urge  each  other  onward  and 
downward.  He  first  touched  the  fatal  spring  of  her  ambition,  and 
instantly  her  whole  nature  glowed  with  the  cold  intensity  of  the  elec- 
tric light.  Then,  when  he  seemed  to  vacillate  before  the  threats  of 
vanquished  virtue  and  an  awakened  conscience,  the  spirit  he  has 
raised  in  the  woman's  bosom  will  not  down,  but  lifts  its  serpent  crest 
to  taunt  with  hissing  tongue,  and  lure  and  urge  him  relentlessly  to 
the  bloody  deed.  Her  hard,  cold,  narrow,  and  direct  intellect  sees  no 
end  but  the  diadem,  no  means  but  the  dagger.  Her  unbending,  yet 
feminine,  wickedness  employs  every  stratagem  of  diabolical  rhetoric 
to  hold  him  to  his  purpose ;  she  knows  him  to  be  fearless,  aggressive, 
audacious,  and,  with  a  purpose  once  fully  formed,  prompt  and  decisive. 
This  was  the  temper  which  had  made  him  so  dauntless  a  soldier  on  the 
field,  and  so  fortunate  a  commander.  To  fix  that  purpose  in  the  con- 
test between  conscience  and  will,  she  combines  a  tremendous  energy 
with  fiendish  subtlety.  When  he  seems  about  to  cast  aside  his  dark 
design,  she  holds  him  to  it  by  first  suggesting  it  to  him  as  her  work, 
not  his. 

"  He  that's  coming 

Must  be  provided  for ;  and  you  shall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  despatch." 


MACBETH.  259 

She  knows  him  well ;  for,  once  resolved,  he  truly  says : 

"  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 
Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat." 

And  so  he  .is  led  on  and  on,  down  the  dark  and  winding  stairway 
"  of  death  and  hell. 

While  the  poet's  function  in  Macbeth  was,  as  I  have  said,  the 
evolution  of  a  moral  problem,  and  not  specially  the  delineation  of 
character,  yet  Shakespeare's  absolute  artistic  perceptions  would  not 
permit  him  to  portray  a  character  inconsistent  with  itself.  Did  time 
permit,  I  could  readily  demonstrate  this  in  each  person  of  the  drama. 
It  is  Shakespeare's  special  gift  to  condense  a  whole  character  and 
display  it  in  a  few  words,  as  a  flash  of  lightning,  in  blackest  midnight, 
reveals  a  landscape. 

Thus,  while  in  Holinshed's  Chronicle  Banquo  is  Macbeth's  accom- 
plice, the  poet,  ennobling  his  character  and  idealizing  his  integrity, 
makes  him  serve  a  higher  purpose.  And  so  we  find  Banquo  described 
by  Macbeth,  who  says  of  him, 

"  There's  none  but  he 
Whose  being  I  do  fear." 

And  again, 

"  Our  fears  in  Banquo 
Stick  deep  ;  and  in  his  royalty  of  nature 
Reigns  that  which  would  be  feared : — 'tis  much  he  dares — 
And  to  that  dauntless  temper  of  his  mind, 
He  hath  a  wisdom  that  doth  guide  his  valor 
To  act  in  safety." 

Macduff,  "  noble,  wise,  judicious,"  "  child  of  integrity,"  and  full  of 
"  noble  passion,"  yet  is  ever  hasty  and  rash.  The  gracious  and  gentle 
Duncan  suffers  for  his  childlike  trustfulness,  while  his  son,  the  wary 
Malcolm,  exhibits  in  every  word  and  act  the  caution  and  worldly  wis- 
dom in  which  his  father  is  deficient.  His  prudential  virtues  receive 
their  proper  temporal  reward,  while  Duncan,  sacrificed  on  the  altar 
of  his  own  credulity,  wears  the  crown  of  martyrdom.  Even  in  the 
subordinate  characters  of  the  play,  we  find  this  coherence,  as  in  the 
queen's  gentlewoman,  who,  in  her  reticence  and  propriety,  is  still  ever 
a  gentlewoman  indeed. 

But  to  my  mind  the  nicest  analysis  and  most  careful  synthesis 
could  not  so  truly  construct  a  wicked  woman,  as  Shakespeare  has 
created  one  in  Lady  Macbeth.  The  .whole  gamut  of  criticism  has  been 
run  by  the  commentators  in  characterizing  her.  From  the  verdict  of 


260  ESS  A  YS— MIXED. 

those  who,  with  the  bereaved  Malcolm,  describe  her  as  "  the  fiend-like 
queen,"  we  may  pass  to  the  opposite  view  of  the  German  critic,  Leo. 
This  profound  pundit  says  of  her,  "  the  wife,  on  the  other  hand,  at  the 
side  of  a  noble,  honorable  husband,  always  faithful  to  the  right,  would 
have  been  a  pure  and  innocent  woman,  diffusing  happiness  around  her 
domestic  circle,  in  spite  of  some  asperities  in  her  temper."  Even  this 
genial  estimate  cannot  so  far  remove  prejudice  as  to  enable  us  to  imag- 
ine Lady  Macbeth  as  a  pleasant  person  to  have  about  the  house.  She 
is  a  typical  murderess  :  yet  she  is  a  woman,  not  a  fiend ;  a  woman  and 
a  queen. 

We  have  seen  her  finishing  the  work  of  overthrowing  Macbeth' s 
conscience,  which  the  Weird  Sisters  had  begun.  She  says  of  Duncan, 

"I  could  have  stabbed  him  as  he  slept." 

Yet  she  did  not.  There  is  a  vast  distance  between  intensity  of  desire 
and  power  of  execution.  Her  feminine  nature  recoiled  from  the  deed 
itself,  though  not  from  its  contriving.  Unlike  Macbeth,  she  had  seen 
no  daggers,  heard  no  voices ;  but  she  could  not  actually  stab  the  sleep- 
ing Duncan.  She  excuses  herself  thus, 

' '  Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done't." 

Mrs.  Siddons,  the  dark-browed  queen  of  tragedy,  fancied  that  Lady 
Macbeth  was  "  fair,  feminine,  nay  perhaps  even  fragile,"  vaulting 
ambition  kindling  "  all  the  splendors  of  her  dark  blue  eyes."  But 
crime  has  no  special  complexion — blonde  or  brunette — no  more  than 
has  female  fascination. 

She  is  guilty,  but  a  queen,  and  retains,  even  under  the  shadow  of 
her  inexpiable  sin,  the  lofty  refinement  of  her  birth  and  rank.  In  the 
horror  and  confusion  of  Duncan's  death,  she  swoons.  This  is  the  turn- 
ing point  in  her  fate.  Then  the  bubble  of  ambition  bursts.  How 
hollow  and  delusive  it  all  seems  now ! 

"Nought's  had,  all's  spent, 
Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content ; 
'Tis  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy 
'  .          Than  by  destruction  dwell  in  doubtful  joy." 

At  first,  clinging  to  the  last  plank  of  human  sympathy  and  love 
left  from  the  wreck,  she  bends  herself  to  the  task  of  consoling  her 
husband — but  in  vain.  For  herself,  nothing  is  left  but  remorse.  The 
stiff  fibre  of  her  pitiless  heart  had  stretched  too  far — and  broken ;  but 


MACBETH.  261 

not  in  repentance,  only  in  the  agony  of  a  never-dying  dread.     The 
hand  that  a  little  water  was  to  cleanse  bears  "  a  damned  spot."     She 

' '  Is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest." 

Walking  in  her  troubled  sleep,  she  cries, 

"  What  !  will  these  hands  ne'er  be  clean  ?  Here's  the  smell  of  blood  still  ;  all 
the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this  little  hand.  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  " 

Well  may  the  doctor  exclaim, 

"  What  a  sigh  is  there  !  the  heart  is  sorely  charged." 

Well  might  she  wish  herself  with  pious  Duncan  in  his  peace.  At 
last  there  came  a  cry  of  women,  and  the  queen  was  dead. 

At  the  point  of  Duncan's  doom,  Macbeth  trembled,  and  his  wife 
chided  him  as  "  infirm  of  purpose."  But  his  man's  nature  was  made 
of  the  sterner  stuff.  As  he  stepped  from  crime  to  crime,  what  with 
the  swing  of  his  sceptre  and  his  angry  work  of  repression,  he  became 
"  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute."  Baffled  by  juggling  friends,  betrayed  by 
courtiers  and  bereft  of  wife,  his  heart  did  not  break,  nor  his  brain 
become  frenzied.  He  opposed  himself,  like  a  Titan,  to  the  vengeance 
of  heaven  and  the  dread  of  hell — fear  of  man  he  never  knew.  The 
props  of  infernal  prophecy  sank  under  him,  and  yet  he  would  not  fly. 
Then,  "  championed  to  the  utterance  with  fate,"  at  the  last  he  falls  like 
a  soldier,  sword  in  hand,  unrepenting  and  defiant. 

The  poetic  justice  which  assigns  awakened  sensibility  as  a  necessary 
part  of  the  penalty  of  sin  is  incorrect.  Macbeth  displays  a  more  usual 
form  of  punishment.  A  gradual  hardening  of  the  heart,  a  constant 
moral  descent  with  neither  ability  nor  wish  to  recall  the  lost  inno- 
cence, and  an  increasing  catalogue  of  crimes  ensue,  until  the  whip  of 
scorpions  and  the  avenging  Furies  are  needed  to  shake  his  obdurate 
soul.  In  him  we  learn  that  there  is  no  disconnected  sin,  but  that 
offences  are  the  links  in  an  endless  chain,  harnessing  cause  to  remotest 
consequence,  and  dragging  the  guilt-burthened  soul  downward  forever. 
We  saw  him  at  first,  with  "  love,  honor,  obedience,  troops  of  friends." 
And  now,  in  their  stead, 

"  Curses  not  loud  but  deep,  mouth-honor,  breath, 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and  dare  not." 

It  is  thus  that  Satan  fulfils  his  promises.  Even  in  the  moment 
of  fruition,  when  success  seemed  to  have  justified  his  usurpation,  he 
received  a  bitter  foretaste  of  his  awful  future.  Shakespeare  does  not 


262  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

palter  with  this  aspect  of  crime.  He  fills  the  meed  of  temporal  pros- 
perity for  the  murderer,  crowns  him,  surrounds  his  throne  with  obse- 
quious courtiers,  crushes  his  enemies,  and  gives  him  all — 

"  Thou  hast  it  now:  King,  Cawdor,  Glamis,  all, 
As  the  weird  women  promised." 

But  he  does  not  give  him  one  happy  moment. 
Lady  Macbeth  says  to  him, 

"  How  now,  my  lord  !  why  do  you  keep  alone, 
Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making  ?  " 

He  bewails  that  they  must 

"  Sleep 

In  the  affliction  of  the  terrible  dreams 
That  shake  us  nightly ;  better  be  with  the  dead, 
Whom  we,  to  gain  our  peace,  have  sent  to  peace." 

The  moral  isolation  of  Macbeth  and  his  wife  is  marked  from  the 
moment  of  his  crime.  The  fissure  gradually  widens  until  it  becomes 
an  abyss  of  distrust,  hatred,  and  revolt.  The  thanes  fall  away,  the 
soldiers  blench, 

"  And  none  serve  with  him  but  constrained  things, 
Whose  hearts  are  absent  too." 

This  moral  isolation — this  segregation  from  human  sympathy — 
ends  in  the  alienation  of  the  guilty  pair ;  and  their  mutual  aifection, 
once  so  tender,  closes  in  cold  disregard.  Selfishness  is  the  essence  of 
sin,  and  in  absolute  selfishness  it  finds  its  consummation. 

Macbeth  is  a  tragedy  indeed.  It  is  the  spectacle  of  a  human  soul, 
which,  under  no  despotism  of  destiny,  but  in  the  exercise  of  a  lawless 
will,  accepts  the  bribe  of  the  tempter,  and  thus  makes  a  destiny  for 
itself — the  destiny  of  perdition.  We  see  a  man  of  might,  with  his  feet 
planted  on  a  rock.  To  win  a  gilde,d  bauble  he  plunges  into  the  sea. 
He  is  a  strong  swimmer  in  the  arms  of  the  whirlpool ;  but  they  are 
arms  which  will  not  give  up  their  prey.  The  lesson  of  Macbeth  is  a 
sad  and  solemn  one.  It  bids  us  look  into  the  abysses  of  our  own  souls, 
lest  therein  may  lurk  some  motive  to  tempt  us  to  our  doom.  And  it 
teaches  this  lesson  by  exhibiting  a  human  soul — a  grand,  heroic  soul — 
tempted,  struggling,  betrayed,  lost. 

In  the  words  of  the  Preacher,  the  son  of  David,  king  in  Jerusa- 
lem :  "  Let  us  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter :  Fear  God,  and 
keep  his  commandments  :  for  this  is  the  whole  duty  of  man.  For 
God  shall  bring  every  work  into  judgment,  with  every  secret  thing, 
whether  it  be  good,  or  whether  it  be  evil." 


CEKVANTES   AND   THE  DON  QUIXOTE. 

BY   AI7GUSTE    D'AVEZAC. 

f  AUGUSTE  GENEVIEVE  VALENTIN  D'AVEZAC  was  born  in  St.  Domingo  in  1777.  Dur- 
ing his  childhood  he  was  brought  to  Louisiana  by  his  parents,  refugees  from  the  massa- 
cre in  that  island,  and  later  was  sent  to  France  to  be  educated.  Returning  to  New 
Orleans,  he  studied  law  under  his  brother-in-law,  Edward  Livingston.  Already  noted 
as  a  criminal  lawyer  at  the  time  of  the  British  invasion  of  1814-15,  he  served  under 
General  Jackson  as  Judge  Advocate  of  the  Army  during  the  campaign.  The  friendship 
resulting  from  this  association  influenced  D'Avezac's  life,  and  led  to  an  ardent  advocacy, 
on  his  part,  of  the  political  fortunes  of  Jackson,  by  whom,  after  the  latter's  accession  to 
the  Presidency,  he  was  appointed  Secretary  of  the  Legation  at  the  Hague  in  1829,  and 
Charge  d'Affaires  at  the  same  post  in  1831.  D'Avezac  shone  equally  at  the  bar,  on  the 
hustings,  and  in  the  lighter  walks  of  literature.  He  wrote  Recollections  of  Livingston 
(1840).  He  died  in  New  York,  February  15,  1851.] 

THE  grass  had  scarcely  grown  over  the  humble  tumulus  under 
which  had  been  laid  all  of  the  rector  of  Meudon  that  was  not  genius, 
wit,  humor,  and  knowledge,  when  Spain,  like  a  field  allowed  for  years 
to  lie  fallow,  and  which,  skilfully  cultivated,  yields  lavishly  the  har- 
vests of  its  long  dormant  fruitfulness,  after  she  had  given  birth  to 
Gonsalvo,  Cortez,  Pizarro,  and  Lope,  in  a  last  effort  of  a  still  happier 
fecundity  brought  forth  Michael  Cervantes  Saavedra !  As  a  young 
horse,  intended  for  the  turf,  unconscious  of  his  high  blood,  wastes,  in 
earlv  contests  with  ignoble  rivals,  the  vigor  of  his  limbs,  alike  flexible 
and  strong,  the  youth  threw  his  hands  on  several  instruments  ere  he 
found  that  which  nature  and  genius  had  willed  that  he  should  strike 
with  unrivalled  powers.  With  Galatea,  he  loitered  in  shady  groves 
and  flowery  meadows.  Nay,  such  is  the  waywardness  of  genius,  Cer- 
vantes wrote  romances  of  chivalry.  On  the  stage,  too,  he  strode  tri- 
umphant, till  Lope  de  Vega's  early  laurels  taught  him,  as  the  strains 
of  Byron's  lyre  taught  Scott,  in  later  days,  that  the  art-made  poet 
must  give  way  to  the  Heaven-inspired  bard.  Cervantes  left  the  arena, 
not  ignobly  defeated, — superior  to  all  mortal  champions,  he  only 
refused  to  contend  with  the  god  of  the  Lyre. 

A  spectacle  of  moral  sublimity  was  twice  offered  to  mankind  in 
the  space  of  three  centuries — two  men  destined  to  undying  renown, 
erring  at  the  start  in  their  choice  of  the  road  leading  to  immortality. 
But  both  Cervantes  and  Scott  turned  back  of  their  own  accord ;  and 
before  having  been  outstripped  in  the  race,  both  declined  the  combat 


264  ESSA  YS—  MIXED. 


a  rival  in  whom  each  had  recognized  a  master-spirit  —  recognized 
him  bv  a  mystic  seal  invisible  to  the  crowd,  but  bright,  effulgent,  unde- 
niable to  the  vision  of  minds  of  kindred  genius.  Xeither,  however, 
felt  discouraged  or  depressed  in  his  own  self-appreciation  ;  each 
returned  to  the  place  whence  he  had  sprung,  buoyant  with  noble  aspi- 
rations ;  each  looked  around  with  eagle  eye,  and  marked  at  last  his 
true  road  to  fame;  each,  bounding  in  the  lists  with  undiminished 
vigor,  like  the  god  of  Homer,  in  three  giant  strides,  reached  the  goal. 

Xeed  we  say  that  the  Don  Quixote  appeared?  This  was  the  uni- 
versal book  —  the  book  which  all  who  could  read,  read.  As  for  knight- 
errantry,  it  had  passed  away,  like  a  dream  of  the  morning.  It  fell  at 
the  first  blow.  In  fact,  the  war  against  giants  and  necromancers  was 
but  the  pretence  of  Cervantes  for  taking  the  field.  He  pursued  his 
triumphant  career  —  no  rival  there  ;  like  the  Macedonian  youth,  he  did 
not  lament  that  he  found  no  more  worlds  to  conquer.  His  the  past, 
the  present  ;  his,  too,  the  endless  future.  To  Lope  he  had  only  yielded 
the  poetry  of  metre  —  the  stage  of  Madrid.  His,  still,  the  poetry  of 
harmonious  prose  ;  his  the  boundless  poetry  of  nature,  the  measureless 
stage  where  moves  the  mighty  pageant  of  the  world's  drama. 

Cervantes  seems  to  have  been  under  the  dominion  of  two  potent 
spirits,  alternately  swaying  his  mind,  and  modelling  its  creations  to 
harmonize  with  their  separate  and  antagonistical  nature.  One,  a 
bright  inhabitant  of  air,  bade  him  to  call  forth  from  the  depth  of  his 
imaginings  the  noblest  of  beings  ;  and  when,  obedient  to  his  com- 
mand, the  Knight  of  La  Mancha  stood  forth,  the  deluding  elf  strewed 
his  path  with  flowers  of  loveliest  hue  and  sweetest  perfume  ;  peopled 
the  groves,  whose  shade  he  sought,  with  nymphs  and  dryads  of  forms 
divinely  fair  ;  compelled  the  wind  to  sigh  soft  and  melodious  to  his 
ear;  and  having  persuaded  him  that  the  hearts  of  statesmen  beat 
responsive  to  the  promptings  of  self-denying  patriotism,  that  the 
female  breast  panted  with  no  other  feeling  but  that  of  chaste  love, 
sent  forth  the  generous  champion  of  virtue,  in  a  world  he  believed 
modelled  in  the  resemblance  of  the  ideal  beauty  and  goodness,  the 
image  of  which  shone  lustrous  within  him  —  left  him  there,  to  be 
buffeted  by  all  the  harsh  realities  of  the  existing  society. 

The  other  spirit,  a  gnome  kneaded  out  of  the  grosser  element,  as 
to  assert  his  equal  sway  and  mastery  over  the  mind  it  was  given  him 
to  rule  with  equally  divided  power,  commanded  the  poet  to  produce 
at  the  same  tune,  and  in  the  same  fulness  and  distinctness  of  moral 
individuality,  as  the  subordinate  companion  of  the  gallant  knight, 
another  being,  differing  in  every  feature,  in  every  propensity,  in  every 
thought  and  action,  from  the  one  to  whom  he  was  doomed  to  be 
inseparably  united  in  an  eternity  of  renown.  The  great  enchanter 


CERVANTES  AND   THE  DON  QUIXOTE.  265 

had  but  to  will,  and  lo!  Sancho  stood  by  the  side  of  his  valorous 
master.  The  one  living  but  in  an  ideal  world,  the  other  without  a 
glimmer  of  fancy,  and  with  just  enough  of  mind  to  move  about  the 
sluggish  embodiment,  saw  what  was  gross  and  inelegant,  squalid  and 
absurd;  and  yet  by  endowing  the  Squire  with  good  common-sense, 
the  only  quality  the  Knight  had  not  been  gifted  with  by  his  Maker, 
Cervantes  rendered  Sancho  no  unworthy  companion  of  the  learned, 
the  eloquent,  the  high-minded  lover  of  Dulcinea.  Nay,  in  their  com- 
munings,  the  reader  knows  not  which  delights  him  most,  whether  the 
warrior,  embracing  earth  and  heaven  in  his  sublime  aspirations,  or  the 
matter-of-fact  Squire,  bringing  incessantly  his  wandering  interlocutor 
back  to  the  realities  of  things  terrestial. 

In  order  to  form  some  idea  of  the  effect  of  such  a  book  on  the 
generation  on  which  it  beamed  at  once,  without  a  precursor,  we  need 
only  to  recall  to  our  memory  the  effect  which  the  second  reading  of  it 
had  on  ourselves.  We  say  the  second  reading — the  first  is  profanely 
allowed  to  children,  at  an  age  when  they  cannot  enjoy  its  beauties, 
and  scarcely  its  buffooneries,  which  are  only  the  mask  of  profound 
wisdom. 

The  trite  anecdote  told  of  Philip  II.,  who  divined  that  the  poor, 
ill-clad  student,  whom  he  saw  reading  and  laughing,  held  Don  Quixote 
in  his  hands,  proclaims  at  the  same  time  the  merit  and  the  contempo- 
rary fame  of  the  work.  Even  Philip  had  read  the  book  of  the  age, 
then  and  now  "  the  book  "  of  Spain.  It  had  made  him  laugh  also — 
not  at  the  quaint  sayings  of  honest  Sancho,  I  wot,  but  at  the  credulity 
of  the  gallant  Knight,  who  believed  in  virtue ! 


LE   SAGE  AND  THE   GIL  BLAS. 

BY    AUGUSTE    D'AVEZAC. 

THE  appearance  of  two  small  volumes  had  thrown  Paris  into  an 
agitation  never  witnessed  since  the  wars  of  the  Fronde.  A  work  of 
fiction,  written  in  the  simplest  and  most  unpretending  prose,  had 
taken  possession  of  the  public  mind.  Poetry  was  unattended  to,  the 
stage  was  neglected — even  science  had  suspended  its  unwearied  toils. 
Gil  -Bias  (such  was  the  unostentatious  title  of  the  new  book)  was 
the  subject  of  every  thought,  the  theme  of  every  conversation. 

Poetry ! — what  was  it  in  France  before  Hugo,  De  Beranger,  and 
Lamartine  had  unbound  the  young  Muse,  and  set  free  the  beauteous 
limbs  of  the  fair  virgin  ?  The  stage ! — what  were  its  stale  tragedies, 
its  pygmy  heroes,  half  Greek,  half  French,  and  bearing  no  more  resem- 
blance to  either  than  some  hybrid  flower  does  to  the  parent  plants  out 
of  whose  unnatural  union  it  has  sprung,  lacking  both  the  perfume  of 
one,  and  the  bright  colors  of  the  other  ?  What  was  the  stage,  when 
compared  with  that  built  by  Genius,  where  the  complex  drama  of  the 
human  life  was  acted  by  actors  instinct  with  all  the  feelings,  the 
motives  of  the  existing  society  ?  Science  ! — ever  modest,  unassuming, 
she  stepped  aside  when  the  inspired  master  came  forward — the  teacher 
of  the  age ! 

The  success  of  Gil  Bias  was  prompt,  but,  unlike  the  lives  of  plants 
of  quick  growth,  its  existence  has  not  been  ephemeral ;  for  as  it  por- 
trayed man  such  as  his  passions  will  ever  make  him,  when  the  same 
circumstances  bring  them  into  action,  time,  which  only  changes  what 
is  conventional  and  artificial,  has  wrought  no  alterations  in  the  match- 
less delineations  of  Le  Sage.  Countless  literary  reputations  have  had 
their  birth,  their  precocious  growth,  and  arrived  to  premature  senility, 
and  sank  into  oblivion,  even  before  the  pupil  of  Sangrado  had  reached 
the  full  height  of  his  fame.  At  that  full  height  of  renown,  after  Gil 
Bias  had  attained  it,  it  has  remained  for  a  century  and  a  half — a  bright 
star,  shedding  its  rays  not  over  France  only,  but  throughout  the  civil- 
ized world.  Such  indeed  is  the  opinion  of  mankind  as  to  the  author 
of  that  master-work,  that  Walter  Scott,  in  his  Lives  of  British  Novel- 
ists, has  placed  the  name  of  Le  Sage  first  in  his  book,  adducing  as  the 
reason  of  his  doing  so  "  that  the  author  of  Gil  Bias  belongs  to  the 
world,  and  not  to  any  one  nation." 


LE  SAGE  AND   THE  GIL  BLAS.  267 

In  Spain,  where  Le  Sage  has  laid  the  scene  of  his  motley  drama, 
the  success  of  the  book  was  even  greater  than  .in  France.  The  enrap- 
tured Castilians  fancied  their  own  Cervantes  risen  from  the  dead,  and 
again  making  immortal,  as  Sancho  did  of  old,  each  village  where  Gil 
Bias  wandered,  was  cheated  or  swindled — each  city  where  he  cheated 
or  swindled  in  his  turn,  where  he  cringed  to  the  great,  pandered  to 
the  vile  passions  of  princes,  and  brow-beat  the  humble  and  the  poor  ! 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  Spanish  pride  suggested  the  idea 
that  no  one  but  a  Spaniard  could  so  faithfully  have  depicted  Spanish 
manners ;  and  that,  therefore,  the  French  Gil  Bias  was  but  a  transla- 
tion of  a  Spanish  original.  Absurd  as  appears  the  assertion,  it  has 
prevailed  all  over  Spain,  where  the  translations  in  Spanish  bear  the 
title  "  Gil  Bias,  restored  to  the  Spanish." 

Instead  of  attempting  a  refutation  of  a  paradox  so  strange,  we 
will  close  the  debate,  as  Franklin  did  frequently  debates  of  a  graver 
cast,  by  telling  you  an  anecdote.  Happy,  indeed,  could  we  imitate, 
together  with  Franklin's  practice  of  using  anecdotes  instead  of  syl- 
logisms in  polemics,  the  graceful  simplicity  with  which  he  told  them. 

Voltaire,  while  in  England,  was  at  the  opera  in  the  box  of  an  old 
duchess.  On  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  a  lovely  debutante  bounded  on 
the  stage,  but  stopped  suddenly.  Her  comb  had  fallen  at  her  feet,  and 
her  hair,  descending  almost  to  the  ground,  covered  her  like  another 
Danae,  with  a  golden  shower.  The  house  rang  with  loud  cheers ; 
all  admired,  all  applauded — all,  save  the  dowager,  who,  turning  to 
Voltaire,  said  scornfully,  "  Poh !  These  are  not  her  own  hairs."  "  But 
are  they  real  hairs  ? "  exclaimed  the  poet.  "  Certainly,"  replied  her 
grace.  "  Well !  "  resumed  young  Arouet,  "  they  must  have  grown  on 
some  one's  head  ;  and  why  not,  pray,  on  that  beautiful  head  which 
they  become  and  adorn  so  admirably  ? " 


BERNARDIN'S  PAUL  AND    VIRGINIA. 

BY   AUGUSTE   D'AVEZAC. 

THE  most  beautiful  region  of  the  earth  had  never  yet  been  described 
to  the  inhabitants  of  Europe.  The  luxuriant  landscape  of  African 
isles  had  found  no  Ruysdael  to  mirror  them.  Their  fair  maids,  born 
of  French  parents,  had  bloomed  and  faded,  like  the  flowers  that 
adorned  their  raven  locks,  unsung  on  the  lyre — when  a  young  officer 
(Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre),  in  sight  of  the  Indian  and  African  Oceans, 
whose  billows  ceaselessly  lash  the  coral  rocks  of  the  Isle  of  France, 
wrote  Paul  et  Virginie.  The  scene  of  the  drama,  a  small  island  rising 
out  of  a  boundless  sea,  like  the  pyramids  out  of  the  sands  of  the  desert 
— the  one  to  proclaim,  in  smiling  loveliness,  the  sway  of  God  over  the 
rebellious  elements,  the  other  to  testify  of  the  genius  of  man;  the 
actors,  two  friendless  widows  with  each  an  only  child,  an  old  negro 
man  and  his  wife,  and  an  aged  planter — at  the  same  time  the  spectator 
and  narrator  of  the  mournful  event.  And  yet,  what  scenes  of  inno- 
cent loves  (loves  of  angels  straying  awhile  on  earth)  were  ever  sent 
into  the  heart  with  greater  power  to  penetrate,  fill,  and  enthrall  it  ? 
What  poet,  of  ancient  or  modern  times,  ever  made  tears  of  deeper 
sorrow  to  flow,  for  real  or  imaginary  woes,  than  those  shed  by  two 
generations  at  the  parting  of  Virginia  from  her  two  mothers,  and  from 
Paul,  whom  she  still  thought  that  she  loved  only  with  a  sister's  affec- 
tion ?  She  is  gone — a  waste  of  waters  roll  between  the  two  lovers. 
How  we  pity  the  poor  child,  now  immured  within  the  gloom  of  a  con- 
vent ;  imprisoned,  too,  in  forms,  rules,  austerities,  uncongenial  to  her 
nature !  Oh,  that  we  could,  through  some  potent  spell,  lead  by  the 
hand  the  pining  maid  to  her  native  land ;  give  her  again  to  the  endear- 
ments of  maternal  love,  to  the  enraptured  caresses  of  the  aged  servants 
who  fostered  her  infancy ;  and  seat  her  by  the  side  of  Paul,  under 
the  shade  of  the  twin  palm-trees,  planted  as  memorials  of  their  birth- 
day! 

Letters  from  France  have  reached  the  lone  island ;  Virginia  writes 
that  she  will  soon  return.  The  vessel  by  which  the  letter  came  had  a 
long  passage ;  only  a  few  days  had  elapsed  after  its  arrival,  when, 
lo !  the  ship  that  brings  back  to  her  green  island  the  long  absent 
maid  is  in  sight — the  pilot  is  already  on  board — in  less  than  an  hour 
it  will  be  safely  anchored  within  the  port.  But  the  wind  has  died 
away — the  sea  is  smooth  like  glass ;  and  yet,  at  long  intervals,  from  the 


BERNARDINO  PAUL  AND    VIRGINIA.  269 

far  west,  unbroken  waves  are  seen  advancing,  which,  as  they  slowly 
lift  the  ship  on  their  tops,  make  it  to  strain  its  cable  as  if  it  already 
rode  in  a  storm— a  rumbling  noise,  distant  and  vague,  like  that  which 
precedes  an  earthquake— a  solemn,  fearful  stillness— dark,  heavy  clouds, 
which  no  breath  of  air  gives  motion  to— the  flight,  too,  of  flocks  of 
sea-birds,  even  of  those  with  strong  pinions,  the  unwearied  journeyers 
over  the  ocean,  all  hurrying  in  wild  flight  and  with  plaintive  shrieks 
to  their  nests,  built  in  the  deep  fissures  of  the  towering  cliffs  which  wall 
the  island — these  dread  omens  of  a  fast-coming  tempest  had  brought 
to  the  beach,  soon  after  the  sun  had  set  in  vapors  as  red  as  its  orb,  a 
crowd  of  tumultuous  and  alarmed  spectators,  and  among  them  Paul, 
with  his  friend  the  aged  planter,  who  sought  to  inspire  him  with 
hopes  which  his  own  experience  taught  him  were  illusive.  Minute- 
guns,  the  well-known  announcement  of  perils  near  at  hand,  added  to 
the  appalling  horrors  of  that  fatal  night. 

We  dare  not  to  bring  a  daguerreotype  to  reflect  on  this  page  the 
shadows  only  of  the  sublime  picture,  where  a  great  master  has  made 
both  the  scene  and  the  actors  visible  to  all,  as  they  were  to  him,  when 
evoked  by  his  fancy.  A  loud  clap  of  thunder  seemed  to  have  sud- 
denly unshackled  the  infuriated  winds.  They  come,  after  careering 
long  unresisted  over  a  waste  of  water ! — they  come !  madly  driving 
before  them  mountain  waves  to  overwhelm  the  stately  ship,  proudly 
floating,  as  in  defiance  of  their  sway  over  the  sea — now  battering  its 
solid  bow  with  broken,  severed  surges  in  rapid  succession — and  now 
assailing  its  swelling  sides  with  the  giant  strength  of  mighty  billows, 
gathered  from  afar.  Paul,  round  whose  body  his  friend  had  fastened 
a  strong  rope,  dashes  in  every  receding  wave,  with  the  hope  of  being 
carried  by  it  towards  the  ship,  still  held  fast  to  its  mooring  by  the 
strong  cables ;  but  every  time  another  wave  throws  him  back  on  the 
beach,  bruised  and  bleeding.  Virginia  is  seen,  through  the  glare  of 
the  red  lightning,  on  the  deck  of  the  St.  Geran,  clad  in  a  white  robe,  with 
her  eyes  raised  up  to  heaven,  like  a  martyr  waiting  for  a  celestial  crown. 
At  that  moment  a  bold  sailor  kneels  before  the  maid  ;  he  entreats  her 
to  throw  off  her  encumbering  vestments,  and  trust  for  safety  in  his 
courage  and  strength.  The  chaste  virgin  gently  repels  him  when  he 
attempts  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  But,  lo !  a  dark,  swift  wave  rolls 
on.  .  The  experienced  eye  of  the  sailor  has  marked  its  course.  It  is 
the  coming  fate!  Eeluctant,  he  dashes,  alone,  into  the  sea.  The 
resistless  billow  rushes  against  the  ship,  impetuous  bounds  over  it,  but 
breaking  as  it  falls,  opens  under  it  a  bottomless  abyss.  All  eyes  are 
directed  to  where  the  St.  Geran  floated  a  moment  before — no  vestige 
is  seen  of  the  noble  structure — darkness  descends,  like  a  curtain,  over 
the  scene ! 


LA  FONTAINE. 

BY    CHARLES    GAYARRE. 

Louis  RACINE  [the  son  of  the  famous  poet  of  that  name]  describes 
the  physique  of  La  Fontaine  and  the  singularities  which  characterized 
him  in  social  intercourse  with  the  world.  He  says :  "  The  great 
fabulist  was  naturally  amiable  and  gentle  in  temper,  but  rough  and 
disagreeable  in  society  from  his  want  of  manner  and  from  utter 
ignorance  of  its  usages.  He  never  cared  to  contribute  to  the  pleasure 
of  the  company  he  was  in ;  and  on  my  sisters,  who,  in  early  life,  had 
frequently  met  him  at  my  father's  table,  he  had  produced  no  other 
impression  than  that  of  his  being  a  slovenly  and  tedious  man.  He 
spoke  little,  or  if  he  spoke  at  all  it  was  about  Plato." 

This  description  is  corroborated  by  another  from  the  pen  of  1'abbe 
d' Olivet,  who  had  the  fullest  opportunity  of  being  well  informed  on 
the  subject.  He  says  :  "  The  physiognomy  of  La  Fontaine  gave  no 
indication  of  his  talents.  It  \vould  have  been  impossible  for  the  most 
sagacious  to  guess  at  their  existence.  His  smile  had  a  silly  expression, 
his  countenance  was  heavy  and  dull,  his  eyes  were  deadened,  and  no 
sign  of  even  common  intelligence  was  apparent  in  his  face.  Rarely 
did  he  engage  in  conversation,  and  when  drawn  into  it,  often  it  was 
with  such  absence  of  mind  that  evidently  he  did  not  know  what  it 
was  about.  He  fell  into  a  sort  of  intellectual  somnolence.  If  he  had 
been  interrogated  on  what  he  had  been  dreaming  of,  he  could  not 
have  told.  If,  however,  when  he  happened  to  be  with  intimate 
friends,  the  conversation  became  animated  and  controversial,  and  if, 
in  taking  a  part  in  it,  he  Avarmed  up  on  some  point  in  dispute,  then 
his  dull  eyes  sparkled  with  an  unusual  light,  and  for  a  little  while  the 
blockhead  disappeared  and  the  man  of  genius  was  revealed." 

Another  writer  of  the  epoch  paints  La  Fontaine  with  the  same 
colors.  He  represents  the  poet  as  being  fond  of  accepting  invitations 
to  dinner,  as  eating  with  voracious  appetite  and  in  obstinate  silence, 
notwithstanding  the  efforts  made  to  draw  him  out.  Even  Madame 
Cornuel,  the  famous  wit,  several  times  struck  with  her  keen  and  flash- 
ing blade,  without  being  able  to  elicit  a  spark,  the  rough,  unpolished 
rock  within  which  there  was  concealed  so  much  intellect.  He  was  in 
the  habit  of  taking  along  with  him  when  he  went  to  some  convivial 
entertainment  one  of  his  friends  named  Gaches,  and  when  he  was 


LA  FONTAINE.  271 

invited  to  recite  some  of  his  fables  or  tales  he  invariably  answered 
with  the  awkward  air  of  a  silly  boy  that  he  did  not  remember  a  single 
one,  but  that  Gaches  did.  Gaches  always  accepted  graciously  the 
substitution,  and  acquitted  himself  marvelously  well  of  the  part  im- 
posed upon  him.  Meanwhile  La  Fontaine  withdrew  into  the  tortoise- 
shell  of  those  reveries,  during  which  he  became  unconscious  of  all 
external  objects. 

On  one  of  the  three  days  in  the  Holy  Week,  when  the  tenebrce 
are  sung  in  all  the  Catholic  churches,  Racine  took  him  to  witness  that 
religious  service,  and  perceiving  that  he  gave  signs  of  impatience  put 
in  his  hands  a  volume  of  the  Bible.  La  Fontaine  opened  it  at  random, 
and  fell  on  the  prayer  of  the  Jews  as  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Baruch. 
It  excited  his  intense  admiration. 

"  What  a  genius  that  Baruch  was !  "  he  said  to  Racine.  "  Who 
was  he?" 

The  next  day,  and  for  more  than  a  week  afterwards,  whenever  he 
met  anybody,  he  never  failed  to  say  with  much  enthusiasm  :  "  Have 
you  read  Baruch  ?  He  was  a  great  genius."  It  was  thus  his  habit 
to  take  suddenly  a  violent  liking  to  something  or  other  and  to  harp 
upon  it  incessantly.  On  such  occasions  it  was  impossible  to  call  his 
attention  to  any  other  subject. 

It  was  his  hobby  to  praise  Rabelais  and  to  put  him  above  all  other 
writers,  modern  or  ancient,  profane  or  sacred,  except  Plato.  Two 
singular  associates,  by  the  bye !  La  Fontaine  happening  to  be  at  the 
house  of  Boileau  with  Racine  and  other  persons,  one  of  whom  was  an 
ecclesiastic,  when  the  conversation  turned  on  Saint  Augustin,  listened 
a  long  time  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  evidently  did  not  understand 
one  word  of  the  discussion.  At  last,  waking  .up  as  it  were  from  pro- 
found sleep,  he  asked  the  ecclesiastic,  with  gravity,  whether  he  thought 
Saint  Augustin  had  as  much  wit  as  Rabelais.  The  priest  looked  at 
him  from  head  to  foot,  and  his  answer  was :  "  Allow  me,  M.  de  la 
Fontaine,  to  call  your  attention  to  one  of  your  stockings.  It  is  put 
on  wrong  side  out."  And  it  was  true.  La  Fontaine  did  not  under- 
stand the  sarcasm,  and  wondered  what  there  could  be  in  common  be- 
between  a  stocking  wrong  side  out  and  Rabelais  compared  to  Saint 
Augustin. 

It  is  truly  astonishing  how  unconscious  the  fabulist  was  of  the 
proprieties  of  life !  Once  he  wrote  a  tale  in  which  a  monk  played  an 
unbecoming  part.  He  took  it  into  his  head  to  dedicate  it  to  the 
famous  and  austere  Arnauld,  of  Port  Royal,  the  friend  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne,  Larochefoucauld,  and  other  distinguished  personages. 
Arnauld  had  praised  the  fables  of  La  Fontaine,  who  wished  to  show  his 
sense  of  gratitude  by  the  dedication.  Boileau  and  Racine,  to  whom 


272  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

he  mentioned  his  intention,  were  at  great  trouble  to  persuade  him  that 
his  tale  was  impious,  and  that  his  intended  dedication  was  an  extrava- 
gance, to  say  the  least  of  it. 

There  would  be  almost  no  end  to  the  long  list  of  anecdotes  relative 
to  La  Fontaine  if  we  attempted  to  recite  them  all.  Probably  many 
were  invented  and  added  to  the  original  stock,  which  is  certainly  rich 
enough.  But  a  few  more,  which  are  not  undeserving  of  being  related, 
are  of  an  authentic  character.  For  instance :  Being  at  the  country 
seat  of  one  of  his  friends,  and  having  gone  out  early  in  the  morning 
to  wander  about,  according  to  his  custom,  he  returned  long  after  the 
dinner  was  over,  notwithstanding  the  warning  which  he  must  have 
received  from  his  ferocious  appetite  about  the  flight  of  time.  When 
he  made  his  appearance  he  was  asked  where  he  had  been  and  what  he 
had  been  doing.  "  I  come,"  he  replied,  "  from  the  funeral  of  an  aunt. 
I  followed  the  procession  to  the  cemetery  and  accompanied  the  family 
back  to  their  home." 

One  morning  the  Duchess  de  Bouillon,  going  from  Paris  to  Ver- 
sailles, saw  La  Fontaine  under  a  tree,  where  he  seemed  to  be  plunged 
in  one  of  those  reveries  which  made  him  insensible  and  unconscious. 
On  her  return  in  the  evening  she  noticed  La  Fontaine  in  the  same 
place  and  in  the  same  attitude,  although  it  was  very  cold  and  it  had 
been  raining  the  whole  day. 

There  are  two  anecdotes  which  are  not  to  his  honor.  He  had  for 
years  lost  sight  of  his  completely  forgotten  son.  One  day  he  met  in 
one  of  the  salons  of  Paris  a  young  man  who  seemed  to  attract  his 
attention  by  his  deportment  and  conversation.  The  youth  having 
taken  leave  and  retired,  La  Fontaine  praised  him  for  his  taste,  wit,  and 
erudition. 

"  I  am  glad  to  inform  you,"  said  one  of  the  company,  "  that  this 
accomplished  gentleman  is  your  son." 

"  Ah ! "  exclaimed  La  Fontaine,  "  I  am  quite  glad  of  it,"  and  he 
thought  of  something  else. 

On  another  occasion,  La  Fontaine  having  paid  a  visit  to  M.  Dupin,  a 
theologian  of  considerable  eminence,  the  latter,  on  the  departure  of 
his  visitor,  accompanied  him  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  where  a  young 
man  was  ascending  at  the  same  time. 

"  Sir,"  said  Dupin,  to  the  new-comer,  "  you  find  yourself  here  in 
familiar  company,  for  this  is  your  father  whom  I  am  waiting  upon." 
The  young  man  bowed  with  grave  formality  and  passed  on. 

"  Who  is  he  ? "  said  La  Fontaine. 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  Dupin,  "  you  have  not  recognized  your  son  ? " 

"  Ah,"  replied  La  Fontaine,  with  a  vacant  stare  and  an  expression 
of  dreamy  listlessness,  "  I  believe  that  I  once  met  him  somewhere." 


LA  FONTAINE.  273 

When  the  congregation  of  the  Augustins  resolved  to  resist  a  judi- 
cial decree  against  them,  and  to  barricade  themselves  in  their  convent, 
into  which  an  entrance  was  to  be  forced,  one  of  La  Fontaine's  friends 
met  him  running  in  that  direction.  He  was  asked  whither  he  was 
going  in  such  haste.  He  replied  with  the  utmost  composure :  "  I  am 
going  to  see  the  killing  of  the  Augustins." 

This  series  of  anecdotes  is  strikingly  illustrative  of  La  Fontaine's 
idiocrasy.  The  following  is  the  last  which  we  shall  mention : 

In  1661,  at  the  first  representation  of  .his  opera  Astrea,  he  was 
seated  behind  two  ladies  who  did  not  know  him.  As  the  piece  went 
on,  he  from  time  to  time  exclaimed  :  "  This  is  detestable !  " 

"  But,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  ladies,  who  lost  patience,  "  this  is  not 
detestable.  The  author  is  a  man  of  taste  and  talent.  It  is  M.  de  la 
Fontaine." 

"  Well,  ladies,"  continued  the  unknown,  "  I  assure  you  that  this 
piece  is  not  worth  a  sou.  This  La  Fontaine  whom  you  praise  is  a  stu- 
pid fellow.  It  is  himself  who  has  the  honor  of  addressing  you." 

This  is  a  specimen,  among  others,  of  his  originality  and  modesty. 

He  went  out  after  the  first  act  and  entered  a  tavern,  coffee-houses 
having  not  yet  been  established.  Sitting  down  in  a  retired  corner,  he 
composed  himself  to  sleep.  One  of  his  acquaintances,  happening  to 
resort  to  the  same  place  for  some  refreshment,  woke  him  up  and 
expressed  astonishment  at  seeing  him  anywhere  else  than  at  the  thea- 
tre where  one  of  his  dramatic  pieces  was  being  acted  for  the  first  time. 
"  I  have  just  come  from  that  representation,"  said  La  Fontaine,  with  a 
prolonged  yawn.  "  I  stood  the  first  act  bravely,  although  it  bored  me 
exceedingly.  But  then  I  thought  that  it  was  time  to  run  away  and 
save  myself  from  the  infliction  of  the  second  act.  I  admire  the  patience 
of  the  Parisians." 

He  was  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  sleep,  and  could  have  said  with 
Sancho  Panza :  "  Blessed  be  he  who  invented  sleep !  "  He  eulogizes 
its  happy  repose  and  its  still  happier  dreams  in  his  poem  entitled  La 
Pa/pimanie — that  country  "  where  supremely  reigns  true  sleep,  of 
which  we  have  only  the  semblance." 

"  Ah  !  par  Saint  Jean,  si  Dieu  me  pr§te  vie, 
Je  le  verrai,  ce  pays  oft  Ton  dort. 
On  y  fait  plus  :  on  n'y  fait  nulle  chose. 
C'est  un  euiploi  que  je  recherche  encore." 

"  Ah !  by  Saint  John,  if  God  should  prolong  my  life,  I  will  visit  that 
country  where  man  enjoys  long  sleep,  and  where,  which  is  still  sweeter, 
he  does  nothing  in  his  wakeful  hours.  This  is  the  kind  of  employ- 
ment of  which  I  am  still  in  pursuit."  To  sleep  had  become  to  him  a 
passion. 


2H  ESSAYS-rMIXED. 

He  had  been  throughout  his  long  career  completely  indifferent  to 
any  kind  of  religion.  It  seems  that  Nature  was  the  only  object  of 
his  worship.  He  lived  in  accordance  with  what  he  conceived  to  be 
her  laws.  His  conscience  must  have  addressed  to  him  no  reproach 
when  he  wrote  these  two  lines : 

' '  Quand  le  moment  viendra  d'aller  trouver  les  morts, 
J'aurai  vgcu  sans  soins,  je  mourrai  sans  remords." 

"  I  have  lived  an  easy  life,  and  shall  die  without  remorse  when 
summoned  to  the  habitation  of  the  dead." 

This  was  before  he  had,  in  his  old  age,  subjected  himself  to  pain- 
ful austerities,  to  a  systematic  mortification  of  the  flesh,  and  to  the 
wearing  of  hair-cloth  on  the  skin. 

There  is  in  man  an  external  and  visible  life,  and  an  internal  and 
invisible  one.  Some  of  our  species  live  more  within  themselves  than 
outside,  being  by  temperament  more  addicted  to  meditation  than  to 
action.  La  Fontaine  belonged  to  this  latter  class,  and  carried  this 
natural  disposition  to  an  excess.  He  had  cultivated  and  indulged  it  to 
such  a  degree  that  he  had  become  almost  incapable  of  meeting  effi- 
ciently the  obligations,  the  realities  and  positiveness  of  human  existence, 
particularly  when  its  exigencies  and  wants  are  infinitely  increased  by 
civilization.  His  imagination  was  the  enchanted  palace  of  the  fairies 
where  he  loved  to  revel,  after  having  bolted  all  the  doors  and  windows 
to  exclude  the  intrusion  of  all  that  was  not  ideal.  No  knocking  from 
without  was  answered,  and  it  is  no  wonder,  for  he  was  not  willing 
to  be  disturbed.  In  this  internal  world  of  his  own,  which  was  as 
thoroughly  hidden  as  if  it  had  been  buried  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
he  felt  himself  transformed,  and  no  longer  the  heavy  clod  of  clay,  the 
simpleton,  the  dotard,  who  was  laughed  at  in  the  prosaic  habitations 
of  his  fellow-beings.  In  the  diamond-studded  halls  of  his  own  creation 
he  would  become  the  embodiment  of  taste,  wit,  sound  sense,  judgment, 
refinement,  and  delicacy.  There  he  conversed  with  gods  and  god- 
desses and  all  sorts  of  supernatural  beings,  and  was  ravished  into  ecstatic 
beatitude  by  the  harp  of  Apollo  and  the  songs  of  the  Muses.  There  he 
was  in  communion  with  all  the  heroes  and  noble  spirits  of  ancient  and 
modern  times.  He  summoned  them  to  his  presence,  and  they  came. 
He  gave  audience  to  animals,  birds,  fishes,  insects,  trees,  and  plants ;  he 
understood  their  language,  and  he  drew  under  the  titles  of  fables,  tales, 
and  other  names,  a  sort  of  proces^erbal  of  all  that  occurred  in  his 
realm  of  fancy ;  whilst  now  and  then,  half  opening  a  window  of  his 
magic  dwelling,  he  flung  out  with  a  careless  hand  a  few  inspired  sheets 
for  the  delight  of  mankind.  Whenever  he  came  out  of  these  celes- 
tially illumined  halls  which  he  had  built  for  himself,  is  it  strange  that  he 


LA   FONTAINE.  275 

felt  dazed,  that  he  talked  as  if  suddenly  dropped  from  the  moon,  that 
he  acted  as  if  out  of  his  senses  and  as  belonging  to  another  world  ?  In 
fact,  he  did  belong  to  another  world,  to  which  he  hastened  to  return 
as  fast  as  possible.  Hence  his  frequent  and  long  fits  of  abstraction, 
during  which  he  was  perfectly  unconscious  and  impassible.  His  body 
— that  lump  of  mortality — remained  behind,  whilst  his  immortal  spirit 
had  gone  to  parts  unknown  and  to  the  companions  of  his  predilection. 
Thus,  when  he  suddenly  was  recalled  from  these  wanderings,  the  inco- 
herence of  his  speech,  the  strangeness  of  his  behavior,  and  his  oblivion 
of  the  wants,  exigencies,  and  proprieties  of  civilized  life  produced 
sometimes  a  startling  effect.  On  some  occasions  he  seemed  to  partake 
of  the  nature  of  the  brute  and  to  be  guided  by  instinct  rather  than  by 
reason.  But  this  was  only  the  outward  crust,  the  coarser  material. 
Within  this  rough-skinned  dreamer  was  a  genius  as  polished  and  bright 
as  a  Damascus  blade.  To  his  contemporaries  he  was  an  incomprehens- 
ible problem,  and  they  called  this  phenomenon  an  "  inspired  idiot."  He 
was  also  surnamed  Le  bonhomme.  This  characteristic  designation  was 
given  to  him  by  his  friends,  by  those  who  knew  him  best,  and  who  con- 
sidered him  the  most  harmless  and  helpless  of  men.  "  Le  fionhomme  " 
La  Fontaine  is  an  appellation  which  will  attach  to  him  forever. 


THE   OKIGIN   OF  MYTH. 

BY    WILLIAM    PEESTON   JOHNSTON. 

THOUGH  the  analogy  that  maintains  a  parallel  between  the  develop- 
ment of  society  and  of  an  individual  man  may  be  strained,  still  it  is 
not  difficult  to  trace  a  resemblance  between  the  historical  phases  of 
certain  races  and  the  successive  stages  of  man's  earthly  existence. 
Childhood,  whether  of  men  or  races,  rejoices  in  the  marvellous  and 
finds  marvels  everywhere ;  it  sees  signs  and  wonders  in  heaven  and 
earth,  and  accepts  not  the  soundest  but  the  most  striking  or  obvious 
interpretation  of  all  it  sees.  Curiosity,  creativeness,  and  the  didactic 
instinct  are  prominent  traits  in  giving  impulse  to  the  faculties  of  the 
young.  When  artificial  and  secondary  appetites,  passions,  and  desires 
have  incrusted  our  minds,  Ave  are  astonished  at  the  restless  energy  of 
childhood  in  exploring,  imitating,  and  repeating  the  wonders  that  the 
world  spreads  before  it.  To  know,  to  idealize,  and  to  impart  seem  the 
business  of  life.  The  eager  appetite  has  not  learned  to  be  dainty  ;  it 
devours  sweet  crudities  with  uncritical  palate.  So  is  it  with  a  race 
whose  veins  throb  with  the  buoyancy  of  youth.  To  the  Greeks  was 
given  a  prime  full  of  surprise  and  questioning  and  joy.  In  the  flush- 
ing dawn  of  their  national  life  every  one  shared  in  the  ceaseless 
demand  upon  man  for  the  story  of  the  past,  and  upon  nature  for  an 
answer  to  the  mysteries  of  the  universe.  They  were  not  solicitous  for 
facts  or  truths,  but  craved  prompt,  pleasing,  and  plausible  responses. 
The  deeds  of  men,  the  secret  forces  of  nature,  and  the  influences  of 
the  stars  were  the  subject  of  story.  The  appearance  of  things  was 
observed  with  rapid  and  delighted  glance ;  while  the  idea  of  law,  of 
the  regular  recurrence  of  phenomena,  did  not  trouble  minds  occupied 
with  the  gorgeous  panorama  of  nature.  The  excited  imagination 
revelled  in  manifold  splendors  ;  the  credulous  understanding  accepted 
as  true  all  that  was  told ;  the  voluble  tongue,  regardless  of  the  error 
arising  from  haste,  ambiguity,  false  inference,  and  exaggeration, 
repeated  whatever  was  most  startling  or  interesting.  With  such 
elements  of  variation  from  sober  statement  the  rapid  transformation 
of  a  fact  is  not  hard  to  conceive.  But  this  inveracity  was  not  con- 
scious falsehood.  The  primitive  mind  does  not  wilfully  propagate  it, 
but  prefers  the  truth.  Nor  does  conscious  fiction  belong  to  this 
primary  phase  of  the  intellect.  It  is  preceded  by  lisping  accents  that 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  MYTH.  277 

mean  to  be  truthful,  and  are  so  according  to  the  common  standard  of 
speech  used  by  speaker  and  listener.  There  is  neither  falsehood  nor 
fiction,  but  only  the  exalted  expression  of  an  idealized  thought,  when 
Lorenzo  says  to  young  Jessica : 

"  How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank! " 
or, 

"  Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold !  " 

Here  there  is  no  misconception  between  the  talkers,  but  its  repeti- 
tion might  well  involve  mistake.  In  the  glow  of  a  young  imagination 
golden  ideas  and  words  are  showered  with  Olympian  lavishness ;  nor 
is  a  Danae  lacking  to  receive  on  bended  knees  the  fruitful  rain  from 
which  heroes  will  spring.  Soul  answers  to  soul ;  heart  understands 
heart ;  thought  and  language,  on  however  high  a  key,  meet  sympa- 
thetic appreciation  in  minds  filled  with  like  emotions.  In  Greece  love 
of  marvel  enlisted  interest  in  the  improbable,  and  credulity  accepted 
it.  A  narrow  range  of  expression  and  a  limited  and  concrete  vocabu- 
lary gave  rise  to  ambiguity  and  mistake.  Words  intended  as  meta- 
phorical were  taken  literally.  Mythic  expression,  with  its  figurative 
language  and  poetic  thoughts,  was  necessarily  open  to  misconstruction. 
Thus  we  see  present  in  the  mythopceic  age  the  elements  of  error  in 
the  conception  of  thought  and  in  its  embodiment  in  speech. 

There  is  in  the  Myths  internal  evidence  that  the  intention  of  the 
myth-makers  was  truthful  and  historical.  The  double  circumstance 
that  Myth  in  its  earliest  form  was  prose  narrative  indicates  that  it 
meant  to  record  facts ;  and  the  relation  of  its  subject-matter  to  events 
shows  that  it  meant  to  be  historical.  Poetry  is  the  language  of  the 
ideal ;  prose,  of  the  real.  True,  Homer  sung ;  but  it  is  thereby  evinced 
that,  though  he  pretended  to  tell  the  deeds  of  heroes,  he  idealized  them 
in  the  telling.  The  earliest  forms  of  the  Myths  are  probably  found 
not  in  these  epics,  but  in  the  legends  told  in  plain  prose  at  the  sanctu- 
aries. These  assumed  to  be  not  only  true,  but  literal.  Again,  the 
subject-matter  of  Myth  is  exactly  the  same  material  of  which  most 
other  nations  build  their  early  history.  The  prowess  of  heroes  and 
chiefs,  the  prodigies  of  priests  and  prophets,  and  the  exploits  of  men 
admirable  for  strength,  courage,  and  intelligence,  have  a  living  interest 
in  every  age.  The  recital  of  these  gratifies  the  pride,  prejudice,  and 
patriotism  of  families,  tribes,  and  nations,  which  transmit  and  exag- 
gerate the  chronicle.  The  faint  line  between  remarkable  and  super- 
natural events  is  easily  overlooked,  and  they  are  received  as  equally 
authentic.  It  is  the  interest  and  should  be  the  wish  of  those  who 


278  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

convey  religious  knowledge  to  do  so  correctly ;  and,  as  a  rule,  such  is 
the  case.  In  this  the  Greek  did  not  differ  from  other  men.  If,  then, 
the  form  and  subject-matter  of  Myth  are  those  used  in  presenting  fact, 
and  no  intention  appears  to  do  otherwise,  we  may  fairly  presume  that 
the  intention  of  the  myth-maker  was.  to  present  fact. 

It  has  already  been  pointed  out  that  two  classes  of  subjects  occu- 
pied the  attention  of  these  prehistoric  Greeks;  the  one  heroic,  the 
other  supernatural.  In  considering  the  origin  of  Myth,  it  may  be  well 
to  handle  these  separately.  In  order  to  comprehend  the  birth  of  the 
Heroic  Myth,  we  should  recall  the  earliest  known  social  organization 
of  the  Greeks.  They  were  clustered  into  a  multitude  of  petty,  inde- 
pendent tribes,  each  under  its  own  king  and  nobles,  who  were  sup- 
posed to  be  of  divine  or  heroic  descent.  Whether  this  conviction  was 
the  result  of  conquest,  priestcraft,  or  other  cognate  causes,  avails  not 
here  to  inquire ;  but  the  fact  remains  that  to  their  aristocracy  was 
accorded  a  superiority  of  race.  There  is  a  universal  tendency  to  dwell 
upon  and  commemorate  the  words  and  deeds  of  the  great,  to  generalize 
under  their  names  the  efficient  causes  of  remarkable  events,  and  to 
attribute  to  them  transcendent  vigor,  wisdom,  and  virtue.  If  this  be 
true  ordinarily,  it  is  so  more  markedly  in  a  community  governed  by  an 
aristocracy  of  ampler  endowments.  The  intellectual  prostration  of  the 
Peruvians  before  their  Incas,  and  the  legends  of  Manco  Capac,  are 
familiar  illustrations.  Now,  the  early  Greeks  regarded  their  royal 
houses  with  a  similar  respect,  and  employed  all  their  immature  but 
aspiring  talents  to  eulogize  their  chiefs.  As  children  look  with  loving 
and  reverential  eyes  upon  their  parents,  trusting  to  their  unbounded 
resources,  so  these  simple-hearted  people,  upon  whom  skepticism  had 
not  laid  its  blighting  finger,  paid  filial  and  fervent  homage  to  the 
father  and  elders  of  the  nation.  To  rehearse  their  exploits,  to  extol 
their  merits,  and  to  preserve  their  fame,  were  the  artless  themes  to 
which  were  devoted  abilities  that  in  maturer  societies  spread  their 
energies  into  every  manner  of  literary  production.  To  hand  down  a 
true  account  of  what  has  actually  occurred,  to  perpetuate  real  trans- 
actions, this  is  the  object  of  history ;  and  this  also  was  the  aim  of  those 
primeval  Greeks,  whose  efforts,  however,  resulted  in  Myth.  The  nu- 
cleus or  germ  of  most  Myths  originally  embodied  a  heroic  biography, 
as  conceived  and  treated  by  a  credulous,  imaginative  people.  I  say 
germ,  because  the  original  shape  of  a  Myth  can  now  scarcely  even  be 
guessed  at.  In  the  lapse  of  ages  these  rude  essays  at  narrative  were 
mingled  with  so  much  added  falsehood  that  a  minimum  only  of  truth 
remained.  Professor  Tyndall  has  eloquently  described  the  resplendent 
effects  of  light  displayed  through  the  medium  of  matter  present  in  the 
atmosphere,  but  of  a  tenuity  invisible  by  the  microscope.  Somewhat 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  MYTH.  279 

akin  to  this  is  matter-of-fact  in  Myth.  It  is  there,  imponderable  in 
human  action,  undiscernible  by  scientific  research,  and  yet  imparting 
a  depth,  a  clearness,  and  a  brilliancy  of  coloring  that  the  rarer  medium 
of  fiction  does  not  possess.  So  close  does  Myth  lie  to  the  purely  fabu- 
lous that  it  merges  into  it  as  twilight  into  darkness. 

So  hard  has  it  been  to  discover  in  Myth  any  trustworthy  facts 
based  upon  a  solid  foundation  of  evidence  that  some  judicious  explorers 
have  refused  to  search  for  a  historical  basis  where  they  believed  none 
to  exist.  Their  critical  tests  dispel  it  in  vapor.  Again  Ixion  aspires 
to  woo  Here,  and  is  cheated  by  a  cloud ;  again  he  seeks  the  unsullied 
majesty  of  truth,  and  clasps  the  dissolving  mist.  It  was  after  such 
failures  that  Grote  regretfully  declared  mythology  to  be  "  a  past  that 
never  was  present."  He  declined  the  attempt  to  withdraw  the  curtain 
and  disclose  the  picture,  with  the  reply  of  Zeuxis,  "  The  curtain  is  the 
picture."  He  banished  Myth  to  the  region  of  Fancy,  whence  he 
thought  it  had  sprung.  Yet  the  amount  of  error  subsequently  intruded 
is  sufficient,  as  will  be  shown,  to  account  for  the  difficulty,  not  to  say 
impossibility,  of  discovering  the  underlying  truth.  Max  Miiller,  Cox, 
and  their  school  have  rendered  service  in  this  at  least,  that  they  have 
shown  that  some  of  the  Myths  are  explicable  by  philology  ;  and  if  so, 
why  not  others  by  other  processes  ?  In  the  contemplation  of  the  im- 
pressive solar  Myths,  and  of  the  ingenious  allegories  of  a  later  age,  we 
must  not  forget,  however,  that  more  than  half  the  Myths  afloat  in 
Hellas  related  to  the  deeds  of  heroes. 

A  feature  of  the  Heroic  Myth,  not  to  be  neglected,  is  that  it  was 
local.  It  belonged  to  the  place  and  the  tribe.  It  was  of  the  vicinage, 
not  of  the  nation.  In  each  little  district  it  was  similar  to,  but  not  the 
same  as  in  others.  It  varied  in  names  and  particulars,  according  to  its 
cradle.  Its  manifestations  in  symbol  and  story  differed  as  individuals 
of  a  class,  yet  the  generic  resemblance  remained.  In  the  palmy  clays  of 
the  Mythus  there  was  no  system  of  mythology  ;  and,  indeed,  none  ever 
existed  except  in  the  treatises  of  philosophers,  when  it  was  no  longer  a 
faith,  but  a  civil  institution.  This  generic  likeness  of  Myths  in  places 
widely  apart,  with  specific  discrepancies  even  among  neighbors ;  this 
importance  of  locality,  as  an  element  of  diversity,  would  seem  to  indi- 
cate a  general  cause  rather  than  a  common  origin  of  these  inconsistent 
Myths.  They  seem  to  have  arisen  out  of  a  prevalent  state  of  things, 
rather  than  to  have  been  modifications  of  a  few  legends,  to  which 
some  theorists  would  reduce  them.  In  a  word,  though  the  position  is 
not  indisputable,  it  may  be  safely  asserted  that  the  recital  of  early 
heroic  action  is  the  greatest,  though  not  the  sole,  source  of  Heroic 
Myth.  The  actual  deeds  of  real  men  were  the  fountain-head  whence 
flowed  a  stream  of  tradition  that  gradually  changed  by  the  mingling 


280  ESSAYS— MIXED. 

of  many  waters,  till  the  pure  element  of  truth  was  lost  in  a  flood  of 
fable  and  fiction. 

But  it  is  too  narrow  a  view  of  the  divine  energy  of  the  intellect  to 
suppose  that  even  in  its  infancy  it  can  rest  content  with  human  trans- 
action as  its  only  food.  All  the  questions  that  agitate  a  maturer  epoch 
start  unbidden,  and  must  have  their  answer.  The  problems  of  God 
and  Man,  of  Pain  and  Evil  and  Destiny  and  Death,  call  out  to  the 
heart  and  understanding  for  solution.  The  readiest,  most  ingenious, 
and  most  surprising  answer  is  the  most  satisfactory.  The  riddling 
song  of  a  strolling  minstrel,  the  imported  dogma  of  a  foreign  priest, 
or  the  plausible  guess  of  some  inchoate  philosopher  are  adopted  as 
beliefs  with  equal  avidity.  The  phenomena  of  day  and  night  and  of 
the  revolving  seasons  had  to  be  accounted  for ;  the  creation  of  the 
world  and  of  man  invited  curiosity ;  the  power  and  powerlessness  of 
the  human  will  in  collision  with  invisible  influences  demanded  explana- 
tion. The  unravelling  of  all  these  physical  and  spiritual  facts  was  that 
of  children.  Whatever  was  stirring  in  the  mind  of  early  Greece 
assumed  the  form  of  Myth;  that  is  to  say,  of  childlike  thought  in 
childlike  speech.  Keligious  and  moral  ideas,  the  works  of  Nature,  cos- 
mogonic  theories,  all  causes  and  agencies,  found  mythic  expression. 
This  converted  all  powers  and  existences  into  persons,  and  all  relations 
into  actions.*  A  complete  body  of  primitive  thought,  therefore,  is  con- 
tained in  mythology  ;  but  it  has  put  on  a  garb  of  flesh,  and  is  energized 
into  a  spurious  history  of  divine  and  human  action. 

To  understand  the  manner  in  which  the  Greeks  realized  their 
mythical  beliefs  we  must  remember  the  intensity  of  their  imaginative 
and  personifying  powers,  and  the  phase  of  speech  in  which  these  ideas 
were  represented.  This  undeveloped  language,  half  narrative,  half 
poetic,  was  the  natural  and  appropriate  vehicle  for  the  thoughts  it 
conveyed.  I  lately  saw  a  girl  of  five  years  bring  from  her  garden  a 
bunch  of  pink  morning-glories.  "  They  are  all  dressed  in  the  fashion- 
able pink,"  said  she ;  "  I  wonder  how  they  knew  it  was  the  fashionable 
color ;  I  am  sure  I  didn't  tell  them."  Here  was  no  self-deception,  for 
the  child  was  well  aware  that  she  held  in  her  hand  inanimate  blos- 
soms ;  but  there  was  an  actual  and  perfect  personification,  a  recogni- 
tion of  the  mysterious  may-be  that  underlies  the  whole  external  world 
of  matter.  The  activity  of  the  Greek  fancy  carried  this  into  every 
object  of  nature.  The  circulating  sap  supplied  to  the  trees  not  only 
vegetable  life,  but  conscious  existence  ;  the  fountain's  spray  veiled  the 
spirit  of  the  waters ;  the  great  bosom  of  the  ocean  itself  heaved  with 
contending  passions,  and  shook  its  rocky  barriers  with  a  purpose.  The 
impulse  to  wrath  or  joy  or  love  became  the  suggestion  of  an  unseen 
*  Vide  K.  0.  Muller's  Scientific  Introduction  to  Mythology. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  MYTH.  281 

being  to  whom  these  qualities  were  a  soul  or  animating  principle. 
The  sun  rose  and  made  his  daily  circuit  under  the  guidance  of  a  pres- 
ent deity  ;  and  Zeus  compelled  the  cloud  and  hurled  the  thunderbolt, 
while  he  ruled  supreme  over  gods  and  men.  The  idea  of  Divine 
causation  seems  to  have  been  evolved  from  the  pressure  of  a  great 
want  on  the  minds  of  these  simple  folk ;  of  a  great  want,  and  of  an 
unseen  presence  making  itself  felt  in  all  the  operations  of  nature.  Or 
is  this  only  another  way  of  saying  with  St.  Paul,  "  For  the  invisible 
things  of  Him  from  the  creation  of  the  world  are  clearly  seen,  being 
understood  by  the  things  that  are  made,  even  His  eternal  power  and 
Godhead  "  ?  Is  it  strange  that,  perceiving  the  diverse  manifestations 
of  the  Divine  energy,  they  should  have  assigned  each  to  a  cause  which 
with  them  became  a  person  ;  and  yet  could  not,  through  the  darkness 
of  their  "  vain  imaginations  and  foolish  hearts,"  look  beyond  to  a 
First  Great  Cause  ?  The  personification  of  the  powers  of  nature  and 
their  worship  Avere  the  necessary  results  of  these  tendencies.  They 
"  changed  the  glory  of  the  uncorruptible  God  into  an  image  made 
like  to  corruptible  man."  It  seemed  reasonable  to  them  to  attribute 
whatever  was  unusual  or  important  to  a  supernatural  cause,  and  to 
ascribe  to  their  gods  a  constant  intervention  in  the  affairs  of  men. 
Whatever  was  thus  ascribed  entered  into  the  beliefs  of  the  people 
and  became  part  of  the  traditionary  mythus.  Moreover,  though  these 
mythopoeic  Greeks  desired  truth,  it  was  as  they  loved  the  beautiful, 
the  wonderful,  and  other  ideas.  Hence,  with  this  divided  aspiration 
for  truth,  with  radiant  imagination,  with  vivid  personification,  and 
with  these  tendencies  to  impute  every  unwonted  incident  to  super- 
natural causes,  it  is  not  strange  that  the  Greeks  peopled  land  and  sea 
and  sky  with  a  host  of  demons  and  deities,  giving  to  each  "  a  local 
habitation  and  a  name,"  a  life  of  action  and  a  personal  biography. 
This  was  the  supernatural  mythus  in  its  inception.  At  a  later  day 
these  habits  of  mind  pervading  an  entire  population  developed  into 
an  allegorizing  tendency,  a  conscious  and  constructive  phase  of  per- 
sonification that  converted  prevalent  sentiments  or  institutions  into 
personal  or  particular  facts,  and  embodied  abstract  and  general  rela- 
tions and  ideas  in  concrete  forms. 

But  these  were  not  the  only  sources  of  error,  nor  the  only  forces 
conducing  to  that  transfusion  of  the  fabulous  into  the  pure  element 
of  history  which  replaced  its  clear  light  with  the  prismatic  splendors 
of  Myth.  The  critical  faculty  that  ponders  statements,  weighs  evi- 
dence, and  discriminates  relations  was  as  yet  unborn.  Ko  effort  was 
made  to  define  with  exactness  notions  put  forth  in  crude  forms  of 
speech.  Figurative  language  was  transformed  by  literal  rendering 
into  extravagant  stories.  I  have  heard  a  soldier  say,  "  I  tell  you,  the 


282  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

general  looked  ten  feet  high."  In  the  lapse  of  time  and  tongue  and 
tradition  a  mythic  epoch  would  have  extolled  the  gallant  commander 
as  actually  ten  feet  tall.  While  mythic  expression  was  the  fittest  die 
to  stamp  the  intellectual  treasures  of  that  age  into  current  coinage,  still 
its  spirit  and  form  tended  to  render  it  misleading,  especially  in  case  of 
a  want  of  mental  sympathy  between  speaker  and  listener.  The  half- 
interpreted  archaisms  and  solecisms  of  bards,  reciting  in  kindred  but 
unfamiliar  dialect,  entered  into  prose  as  literal  facts.  Such  importance, 
indeed,  does  Max  Miiller's  school  give  to  these  philological  grounds 
of  error,  that  they  have  set  up  as  a  cardinal  formula  "  that  mythology 
is  only  a  dialect,  an  ancient  form  of  language."  Their  theory  is  that 
the  operations  of  nature,  and  especially  the  solar  phenomena,  were 
chanted  by  primitive  poets  in  bold  metaphors ;  and  that  these  gradu- 
ally lost  their  poetical  and  finally  their  radical  meanings,  and  remained 
imbedded  in  Myth  only  as  proper  names.  They  assert  that  the  key  to 
the  mythological  names  and  stories  is  found  in  the  Sanskrit  tongue, 
the  hymns  of  the  Yedas,  and  the  description  of  the  aspects  of  nature 
— especially  of  the  sun.  An  unconscious  allegory  that  may  be  called 
the  sun  epic — the  Phoebiad — is  made  to  occupy  almost  the  whole  ground 
that  the  fertile  fancy  of  the  Greeks  has  strewn  thick  with  flowers. 
Doubtless  some  of  the  earlier  Myths  have  been  thus  interpreted  cor- 
rectly ;  and  some  of  the  later  fabricated  Myths,  which  allegorized 
astronomical  ideas,  have  been  thus  unveiled :  but  the  great  success  of 
these  scholars  has  led  them  to  magnify  the  importance  of  this  element 
of  myth-generation.  They  fancy  that  they  hold  the  clew  to  the  whole 
labyrinth,  forgetting  how  many  of  the  Myths  are  only  secondary ;  out- 
growths, drawing  a  sort  of  plant-life  from  the  decayed  organisms  of 
earlier  Myths,  and  hence  inscrutable  to  every  kind  of  analysis.  It  can- 
not be  that  the  primal  poems  of  mankind,  filtered  through  ages  of 
migration,  conquest,  and  commercial  transfer ;  through  shif tings  of 
races,  confusions  of  tongues,  and  kaleidoscopic  minstrelsy  and  story- 
telling, whether  decomposed  by  the  tests  of  historical  credibility  or 
of  philological  ingenuity,  will  at  the  bidding  of  science  rise  again 
restored  in  its  first  form.  Art  cannot  renew  the  rose  from  its  ashes. 
The  palingenesis  of  the  phoenix  is  altogether  fable. 

Two  causes  that  helped  to  produce  and  confirm  a  belief  in  appari- 
tions, and  hence  in  the  entire  mythology  vouched  for  by  them,  have 
been  left  out  of  account  by  the  critical  mythologists.  These  are  hallu- 
cination and  optical  illusion.  It  is  forgotten  that  men  see  ghosts.  It 
is  not  impossible  to  see  things  simply  because  they  do  not  exist.  Phan- 
toms and  spectres  do  appear,  and  imagination  alone  will  not  account 
for  them.  The  truth  is  that  it  is  quite  common  to  behold  with  the 
eye  the  image  of  what  subsists  in  the  mind  only.  The  victims  of 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  MYTH.  283 

mania  a  potu,  after  recovery,  distinguish  what  fantasy  imprinted  on 
the  retina  during  the  delirium  from  real  objects  then  seen  only  by 
inquiry  or  the  contradiction  to  their  ordinary  experience.  The  eye  in 
such  cases,  by  a  retroactive  process,  sees  the  picture  in  the  brain.  But 
there  are  so  many  well-attested  instances  of  hallucination  in  the  records 
of  modern  medical  science  that  it  will  scarcely  be  denied  as  a  psycho- 
logical fact.  A  sensible  man  who  sees  a  ghost  goes  at  once  to  see 
his  physician  also,  Avho  exorcises  the  intruder  with  blisters,  cathartics, 
and  the  like.  The  doctor  does  "  minister  to  a  mind  diseased."  But  go 
to  the  highlands  of  Scotland,  where  ancient  and  popular  credence  cor- 
roborates the  second-sight  of  the  seer  as  a  veritable  vision,  and  you 
will  find  the  mental  disorder  cherished  as  a  fatal  gift,  and  the  super- 
stition systematized  into  a  cultus.  So  with  the  Greeks,  whose  splendid 
and  creative  imaginations  pictured  in  clouds  and  foliage,  sea-foam  and 
mountain-mist,  the  bright  beings  their  hearts  desired :  when  hallucina- 
tion came  it  beamed  upon  them  in  grand  and  beautiful  dreams,  that 
evinced  at  the  same  time  the  popular  belief  and  the  character  of  the 
national  genius. 

Distinct  from  hallucination,  the  product  of  mingled  mental  and 
physical  aberration  is  optical  illusion,  which  depends  upon  conditions 
purely  physical  and  often  entirely  external.  Hiding  on  the  plains  of 
Western'  Texas,  when  a  vertical  sun  was  pouring  its  blaze  over  the 
boundless,  flower-embroidered  expanse,  my  eyes  have  caught  the  sheen 
of  distant  waters  and  the  likeness  of  a  lake  smiling  in  the  landscape. 
It  was  the  mirage  of  the  desert,  which  receded  as  I  approached  ;  and 
the  dusty  trail  led  through  tracts  that  fantasy  had  painted  with  the 
pencil  of  the  sun.  And  yet  here  the  beholder  is  less  the  artist  than 
Kature  herself.  Shallow  tourists,  stolid  sailors,  and  hard  scientists 
concur  in  bearing  witness  that  the  counterpart  of  ship  and  headland 
are  lifted  by  an  unseen  hand  to  the  clouds  and  poised  in  the  firma- 
ment. The  Giant  of  the  Brocken  mocks  alike  the  gesture  of  bagman 
and  poet.  In  a  word,  optical  illusions  occur  in  such  number  and  under 
such  varied  conditions  as  to  teach  that  the  eye  cannot  be  trusted.  It 
is  notoriously  unequal  to  the  detection  of  legerdemain  and  other  jug-  I 
gling  devices,  in  which  the  hand  out-travels  the  sight.  Vision  is  an  \ 
arch-deceiver  and  delights  in  tricks  on  the  credulous  intellect.  When 
the  Greeks  worshipped  Artemis  and  Dionysus  they  wove  with  verdure 
and  sunshine  a  mantle  of  waving  green  for  the  flitting  form  of  the 
Xymph,  or  caught  in  glimpses  of  the  bounding  goat  outlines  of  a 
pursuing  Satyr.  Such  optical  illusions  were  heightened  by  the 
strong  emotions  and  sensitive  organizations  of  the  Greeks.  Battles 
in  the  clouds  have  been  seen  by  unjaundiced  eyes.  One  such  prece- 
dent might  serve  a  Homer  as  assurance  for  the  divine  machinery 


284  ESSAYS— MIXED. 

of  the   Iliad ;   and  one  Iliad   might  well  mould  the   faith  of  a 
people. 

I  know  not  of  any  mythologist  who  has  described  more  truly  or 
beautifully  the  birth  of  Myth  than  Wordsworth  in  the  Excursion  : 

"In  that  fair  clime  the  lonely  herdsman,  stretched 
On  the  soft  grass  through  half  a  summer's  day, 
With  music  lulled  his  indolent  repose ; 
And  in  some  fit  of  weariness,  if  he, 
"When  his  own  breath  was  silent,  chanced  to  hear 
A  distant  strain,  far  sweeter  than  the  sounds 
Which  his  poor  skill  could  make,  his  fancy  fetched, 
Even  from  the  blazing  chariot  of  the  sun, 
A  beardless  youth  who  touched  a  golden  lute 
And  filled  the  illumined  groves  with  ravishment. 
The  nightly  hunter,  lifting  up  his  eyes 
Toward  the  crescent  moon,  with  grateful  heart 
Called  on  the  lovely  wanderer  who  bestowed 
That  timely  light  to  share  his  joyous  sport; 
And  hence  a  beaming  goddess  with  her  Nymphs 
Across  the  lawn  and  through  the  darksome  groves 
(Not  unaccompanied  with  tuneful  notes, 
By  echo  multiplied  from  rock  or  cave) 
Swept  in  the  storm  of  chase,  as  moon  and  stars 
Glance  rapidly  along  the  clouded  heaven 
When  winds  are  blowing  strong.    The  traveller  slaked 
His  thirst  from  rill  or  gushing  fount,  and  thanked 
The  Naiad.     Sunbeams  upon  distant  hills 
Gliding  apace  with  shadows  in  their  train 
Might,  with  small  help  from  fancy,  be  transformed 
Into  fleet  Oreads  sporting  visibly. 
The  Zephyrs,  fanning,  as  they  passed,  their  wings, 
Lacked  not  for  love  fair  objects,  whom  they  wooed 
With  gentle  whisper.     Withered  boughs  grotesque, 
Stripped  of  their  leaves  and  twigs  by  hoary  age, 
From  depth  of  shaggy  covert  peeping  forth, 
In  the  low  vale  or  on  steep  mountain-side ; 
And  sometimes  intermixed  with  stirring  horns 
Of  the  live  deer,  or  goat's  depending  beard — 
These  were  the  lurking  Satyrs,  a  wild  brood 
Of  gamesome  deities ;  or  Pan  himself, 
The  simple  shepherd's  awe-inspiring  god  !  " 

It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  the  element  of  conscious  falsehood 
and  imposture  in  the  formation  of  Myth.  It  has  entered  there,  of 
course,  as  it  does  into  most  historical  records,  and  into  much  of  human 
transaction.  In  an  age  and  race  at  once  credulous  arid  not  earnestly 
truthful,  lying  would  often  prove  successful ;  but  it  would  still  remain 
the  least  interesting,  permanent,  and  coherent  part  of  Myth. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  MYTH.  285 

If  the  opinions  now  advanced  are  well  founded,  we  are  forced  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  very  origin  of  Myth  was  so  involved  with  miscon- 
ception of  fact,  of  a  blending  of  the  real  and  ideal,  and  with  the  vague- 
ness and  inconsistency  of  a  budding  language,  that  if  we  could  hear 
now  the  voice  of  the  heroic  age  and  understand  its  words  and  phrases, 
the  mental  idiom  of  its  speech  would  puzzle  our  modern  complexity  by 
its  directness  and  candor.  In  the  long  centuries  that  followed,  error 
submerged  the  mythus  with  the  froth  and  often  with  the  filth  of  fable, 
till  the  truth  in  it  is  as  hard  to  find  as  a  jewel  lost  in  a  bog.  But  the 
value  of  the  study  of  mythology  as  an  aid  to  history  fortunately  does 
not  depend  upon  our  finding  the  truth  in  it.  On  the  contrary,  we  have 
effected  somewhat  when  we  discover  how  the  error  got  there ;  and 
again,  we  have  achieved  more  if,  in  apprehending  the  moral  and  mental 
phases  that  revealed  the  mythus,  we  realize  the  psychology  of  an  age 
and  a  race.  No  one  can  estimate,  moreover,  the  fructifying  power  of 
this  spring-pollen  of  the  intellect  until  it  has  been  borne  in  upon  his 
own  thought.  Then  will  he  joyfully  confess  that  those  young-eyed 
Greeks  had  a  vigor  and  stress  and  reach  of  imagination  and  a  latent 
suggestiveness  of  thought  that  prefigured  their  high  estate  in  the 
domain  of  mind.  Then  will  he  gladly  add  his  voice  to  the  general 
acclaim  that  hails  them  as  the  vanguard  of  human  progress. 


THE  BOOK-MEK 

BY    T.    WHARTON    COLLENS. 

[THOMAS  WHARTON  COLLENS  was  born  in  New  Orleans,  June  23,  1812.  As  a  very 
young  man  he  edited  the  True  America.  In  1840  he  was  elected  District  Attorney  of 
the  Orleans  District  of  Louisiana.  In  1842-46  he  was  Judge  of  the  City  Court  of  New 
Orleans,  and  in  1856  was  elected  Judge  of  the  First  District  Court  of  the  same  city. 
In  1868  he  was  made  Judge  of  the  Seventh  District  Court  of  the  Parish  of  Orleans  ;  this 
position  he  held  until  the  court  was  abolished  in  1873.  He  was  the  author  of  Humanics 
(I860)  and  the  Eden  of  Labor  (1876),  two  philosophical  works  which  have  stood  well  with 
judicious  critics.  While  scarcely  more  than  a  boy  he  wrote  the  Martyr  Patriots,  or 
Louisiana  in  1769,  an  historical  tragedy  which,  shortly  after  its  publication,  was  suc- 
cessfully performed  at  the  old  St.  Charles  Theatre.  (Vide  page  421.)  Judge  Collens 
died  in  New  Orleans,  November  3,  1879.] 

WHAT  a  vast  difference  there  is  between  us  and  our  ancestors  who 
lived  three  thousand  years  ago  !  What  savages  they  were !  What  a 
polished  people  are  we !  Surrounded  by  all  the  glories  and  lights, 
blessings  and  hopes  of  civilization,  we  can  hardly  realize  the  fact  that 
we  are  the  descendants  of  men  who  roamed  in  forests  and  deserts,  of 
men  as  ignorant,  superstitious,  wild,  and  brutal  as  the  Comanche 
Indians.  Such,  nevertheless,  is  the  fact ;  and  the  question  naturally 
arises :  How,  through  the  ages,  have  our  ancestors  been  able  to  over- 
come their  abject  condition,  and  rise  to  the  heights  of  knowledge  and 
art,  to  survey  an  immense  horizon  of  truth,  and  use  the  magical  boun- 
ties of  invention  ?  Did  the  light  break  upon  us  all  at  once ;  did  we 
get  all  the  superior  advantages  of  science  and  art  we  now  enjoy  from 
a  single  hand  or  from  one  inspiration,  or  was  the  process  not  only  slow 
and  gradual,  but  difficult  and  terrible  ?  To  what  or  to  whom  do  we 
owe  this  great  change,  this  wonderful  transformation  of  the  mind, 
manners,  and- labors  of  the  human  race? 

We  answer  at  once :  The  progress  of  man  from  the  savage  to  the 
civilized  state  of  society  and  to  its  functions  and  uses  was  indeed  slow 
and  arduous,  and  is  due  to  the  studies  of  solitary,  thinking  book- 
men, careful  theorists,  or  inquisitive  philosophers,  who,  in  each  genera- 
tion, and  one  after  the  other,  have  promulgated  the  result  of  their 
meditations. 

Understand  us — we  mean  what  we  say :  we  say  hook-men,  we  say 
theorists  ;  and,  if  humor  prompts,  it  may  add  contemptuous  epithets  to 
the  terms.  We  may  say,  if  we  choose,  mere  book-men,  mad  theorists, 
or  dreamy  philosophers,  and  still  the  proposition  would  be  true. 


T.    WHARTON    COLLENS. 


THE  BOOK-MEN.  287 

To  demonstrate  this  truth  we  might  begin  with  primeval  man,  go 
through  ancient  history,  tracing  the  march  of  mind  from  the  mythic 
Hermes  of  Egypt,  the  Pythagoras  of  Greece,  the  Zoroaster  of  Persia, 
to  the  grand  display  of  civilization  exhibited  by  the  Koman  Empire 
under  Aurelius  Antoninus,  or  under  Constantine  the  Great,  and  thence 
follow  the  current  in  all  its  vicissitudes  down  to  the  present  age.  But 
the  limits  of  a  single  article  preclude  so  extended  a  review  of  human 
progress.  Hence,  we  are  compelled  to  select,  if  possible,  a  period  of 
history  within  which  a  fair  illustration  of  the  march  of  mind  may  be 
found  (leaving  out  former  and  subsequent  ages),  to  test  other  periods 
by  the  same  laws  of  development.  Let  us,  therefore,  begin  in  the 
middle  of  the  middle  ages,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  year  800  after  Christ, 
and  finish  with  the  discovery  of  America,  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
From  this  first  point  our  premises  will  be  apparent.  At  the  last  point 
our  conclusion  will  be  reached ;  and  then  all  the  consequences,  as 
applicable  to  modern  times,  will  show  themselves  as  clearly  as  the 
landscape  in  the  light  of  day. 

In  the  year  800  after  Christ,  what  was  the  state  of  Europe  ?  The 
Goths,  the  Vandals,  the  Franks,  the  Huns,  the  Normans,  the  Turks,, 
and  other  barbarian  hordes,  had  invaded  and  overthrown  the  Roman 
Empire,  and  had  established  various  kingdoms  upon  its  ruins.  These 
hordes  of  savages  had  destroyed  not  only  all  the  works  of  civilization, 
but  civilization  itself.  Ignorant  as  they  were  of  everything  that  dis- 
tinguishes and  elevates  human  nature,  they  broke  up  the  schools, 
ruined  the  monuments,  abolished  arts  and  manufactures,  prevented 
commerce,  and  reduced  the  conquered  nations  to  their  own  condition, 
inaugurating  in  the  completest  manner  the  reign  of  brute  force  and 
mental  darkness.  If  they  afterward  espoused  Christianity,  they 
moulded  it  to  their  own  savage  superstition,  till  at  last  naught  was  left 
of  the  divine  dispensation  but  its  name,  to  cover  the  most  degrading 
idolatry  and  demonism.  At  the  time  we  begin  our  specific  examina- 
tion we  find  that,  in  the  then  so-called  Christian  nations— 

1.  There  existed  no  science  worthy  of  the  name,  no  schools  what- 
ever. Eeading,  writing,  and  ciphering  were  separate  and  distinct 
trades.  The  masses,  the  nobility,  the  poor  and  the  rich,  were  wholly 
unacquainted  with  the  mysteries  of  the  alphabet  and  the  pen.  A  few 
men,  known  as  clerks,  who  generally  belonged  to  the  priesthood, 
monopolized  them  as  a  special  class  of  artists.  They  taught  their 
business  only  to  their  seminarists,  apprentices ;  and  beyond  themselves 
and  their  few  pupils  no  one  knew  how  to  read  and  write,  nor  was  it 
expected  of  the  generality,  any  more  than  it  would  be  nowadays  that 
everybody  should  be  a  shoemaker  or  a  lawyer.  Kings  did  not  even 
know  how  to  sign  their  names,  so  that  when  they  wanted  to  subscribe 


288  ESSAYS— MIXED. 

to  a  written  contract,  law,  or  treaty,  which  some  clerk  had  drawn  up 
for  them,  they  would  smear  their  right  hand  with  ink,  and  slap  it 
down  upon  the  parchment  saying,  "  Witness  my  hand."  At  a  later 
date,  some  genius  devised  the  substitute  of  the  seal,  which  was  im- 
pressed instead  of  the  hand,  but  oftener  besides  the  hand.  Every 
gentleman  had  a  seal  with  a  peculiar  device  thereon.  Hence  the  sac- 
ramental words  now  in  use,  "  Witness  my  hand  and  seal,"  affixed  to 
modern  deeds,  serve  at  least  the  purpose  of  reminding  us  of  the  igno- 
rance of  the  middle  ages. 

In  fact,  in  those  days  a  nobleman  considered  it  below  his  dignity  to 
have  any  knowledge  of  letters.  This  was  left  to  persons  of  inferior 
rank.  The  use  of  arms,  horsemanship,  and  war  were  the  sole  avoca- 
tion of  the  lords  of  the  land.  As  all  authority,  and  indeed  safety, 
depended  upon  force  and  success  in  battle,  skill  at  arms  was  necessa- 
rily the  genteelest  of  the  arts.  The  nobility  knew  no  other  ;  and  the 
workmen  they  admired  the  most  were  those  who  forged  their  uncouth 
armor,  ungainly  shields,  and  clumsy  swords. 

Society  was  divided  into  orders :  at  the  top  were  the  prelates  and 
priesthood,  the  kings  and  nobles ;  at  the  bottom  the  serfs,  who  were 
the  bulk  of  the  people ;  and  intermediate  were  a  few  free  workmen 
and  burgesses,  who  enjoyed  a  sort  of  quasi  exemption  from  personal 
servitude,  but  were  subject  to  the  despotic  rule  of  the  king  and  lords. 

All  persons  were  also  unmitigated  believers  in  magic,  sorcery, 
witchcraft,  enchantments,  amulets,  astrology,  evil-eye,  conjuration, 
fascination,  divination,  fetichism,  charms,  evocation  of  ghosts,  spectres 
and  devils,  talismans,  incantations,  fortune-telling,  palmistry,  cabalistic 
arts,  spells,  divining-rods,  bargains  with  the  occult  powers,  and  the 
like.  Even  in  our  time  vestiges  of  the  like  belief  exist  among  us,  but 
then  it  was  universal  and  denied  by  none,  whether  prince,  priest,  or 
populace.  There  is  no  parallel  to  this  state  of  things  in  modern  times, 
except  in  the  interior  towns  of  Africa. 

It  was  then  universally  conceded  that  the  nobles  were  men  of  a 
superior  race  ;  that  their  blood  was  different  and  purer  than  that  of 
other  men.  All  the  land  belonged  to  them.  No  one  doubted  their 
title.  The  population  of  every  barony  considered  the  baron  as  their 
rightful  master,  holding  his  authority  from  God  himself.  It  was  next 
to  sacrilege  to  disobey  him.  Yet  these  barons  were  brutal,  extortion- 
ate, and  cruel.  They  were  constantly  at  war  with  each  other,  and 
therefore  lived  in  fortified  castles,  whence  they  now  and  then  sallied 
to  levy  contributions  among  their  own  serfs,  rob  passengers  and  cara- 
vans on  the  highway,  or  plunder  and  burn  the  property  or  massacre 
the  people  of  neighboring  fiefs.  They  had  the  right  of  life  and  death 
over  their  vassals.  These  could  not  marry  or  travel  without  their 


THE  BOOK-MEN.  289 

permission.  The  maidens  of  the  baronies  were  obliged  to  gratify  the 
lusts  of  the  baron  whenever  he  took  a  fancy  to  any  of  them ;  and  this, 
so  far  from  being  considered  as  an  act  of  outrageous  despotism,  was 
generally  accepted  as  an  honor  conferred.  No  Turkish  pacha  or  Eus- 
sian  boiar  holds  now  greater  power  than  the  feudal  lords  possessed 
and  abused  during  the  middle  ages.  They  exacted  and  took  the  first, 
the  largest,  and  the  best  products  of  the  labor  of  the  people ;  and  none 
(not  even  those  who  were  the  victims  of  unscrupulous  tithes,  tribute, 
and  pillage)  ever  suspected  that  the  nobles  exceeded  their  divine  and 
rightful  privileges.  The  people,  when  robbed,  or  put  to  the  rack, 
might  think  their  lord  was  a  hard  and  cruel  master  ;  but  his  right  to 
do  as  he  pleased  was  to  every  mind  unquestionable. 

The  laws  which  then  existed  (if  indeed  the  name  of  law  could  be 
justly  applied  to  such  an  ordination  of  society)  were  only  such  as  were 
calculated  to  maintain  the  power  and  fortune  of  the  tyrants  we  have 
just  described.  Murder  was  punished  only  when  the  culprit  was  a 
villain,  or  a  man  of  inferior  rank  to  that  of  his  victim  ;  and  then  the 
punishment  was  graded,  so  that  the  murder  of  a  noble  or  priest  by  a 
villain  or  inferior  was  avenged  by  the  most  revolting  and  agonizing 
tortures  and  death ;  while  if,  on  the  contrary,  the  victim  was  a  villain 
and  the  homicide  a  nobleman,  a  few  pence  was  the  price  of  blood. 
Trials  there  were  none  worthy  of  the  name.  They  tested  the  guilt  or 
innocence  of  those  who  were  suspected  of  offences  by  various  super- 
stitious practices,  such,  for  instance,  as  making  the  supposed  offender 
walk  over  red-hot  ploughshares.  If  he  got  burned,  he  was  guilty ;  if  he 
passed  over  unscathed,  he  was  innocent.  The  favorite  mode  of  decid- 
ing causes  before  the  courts  was  the  trial  by  battle.  The  parties  were 
made  to  fight  it  out,  but  not  always  with  equal  arms.  The  villains 
Avere  'permitted  only  to  wield  the  club,  while  the  gentry  entered  the 
lists  sword  in  hand,  clothed  in  armor,  and  on  horseback.  The  result 
of  the  combat  was  religiously  believed  to  be  "  the  judgment  of  God  " 
between  the  parties. 

We  have  said  that  in  those  ages  no  science  existed.  Let  us  add 
that  it  was  then  universally  taken  for  certain  truth  that  the  earth  was 
flat ;  that  the  skies  were  a  dome  of  hard  adamant,  which  enclosed  and 
covered  the  world  like  the  walls  and  roof  of  a  building  ;  that  the  stars 
were  occult  beings  having  good  or  evil  influences  over  men ;  that  the 
winds  and  the  floods,  the  rain  and  the  crops,  were  either  special  dis- 
pensations of  Providence,  independent  of  any  original  design  or  law, 
or  were,  when  unfavorable,  the  act  of  evil  spirits  or  magical  operations. 
The  monuments  of  Eoman  architecture  were  allowed  to  go  to  ruin. 
The  art  of  building  had  been  almost  forgotten,  and  was  limited  to  the 
erection  of  rough  and  uncouth  fortresses  and  walls  suited  to  keep  men 

19 


2  U  0  ESS  A  YS— MIXED. 

and  horsemen  at  bay.  These  were  usually  located  on  the  tops  of 
almost  inaccessible  rocks.  The  people  lived  in  huts ;  they  ate  with 
their  hands  ;  food  was  cooked  without  pots  or  kettles,  on  the  embers, 
or  roasted  on  spits.  Candles  were  unknown  ;  stockings  were  un- 
known ;  clothing  was  made  of  dressed  skins ;  and,  though  some  woven 
fabrics  were  made  by  means  of  hand-looms,  they  were  so  inferior  that 
the  ordinary  stuffs  worn  by  the  people  of  the  present  day  would  have 
been  then  considered  as  luxurious  finery  fit  for  a  king  to  wear. 

We  forgot  also  to  mention,  in  relation  to  the  trial  by  battle,  that 
the  lawyers  of  those  days  did  not  gain  their  suits  by  means  of  evi- 
dence, authorities  quoted  out  of  books,  and  speeches  or  arguments 
addressed  to  the  courts ;  but  the  lawyers  were  men-at-arms,  expert  in 
the  use  of  the  sword,  the  lance,  the  mace,  and  the  baton ;  and  the 
parties,  when  they  were  able,  would  hire  them  to  fight  out  the  case  in 
the  arena  as  gladiators.  Thus  the  case  would  be  decided  in  favor  of 
him  whose  lawyer  beat,  or  cut  down,  or  unhorsed  his  adversary's 
lawyer.  Those  were  indeed  the  days  when  might  was  right. 

Our  object  in  giving  this  sketch  of  the  state  of  civilization  in  the 
eighth  and  ninth  centuries  is  to  contrast  the  condition  of  society  then 
with  what  it  is  now,  and  to  inquire  how  mankind  could  emerge  from 
that  order  of  things  to  the  present  stage  of  human  progress.  By  what 
means  were  barbarism,  universal  ignorance,  and  superstition  to  be 
overcome  ?  From  whom  was  the  first  light  to  come  ?  Who  was  to 
take  the  first  step  toward  a  better  order  or  higher  knowledge  ? 

The  impediments  were  of  the  most  formidable  character.  Every- 
body was  ignorant,  except  the  few  clerks,  or  clergymen,  we  have  men- 
tioned, and  even  the  range  of  their  knowledge,  beyond  theology,  was 
very  limited.  All  around  them  was  darkness,  and  naught  indicated 
even  a  gleam  of  light  or  liberty. 

By  whom  or  when  was  the  first  step  taken  ?  By  the  very  clerks 
or  book-men  we  have  mentioned,  during  the  reign  of  Charlemagne  in 
France,  and  that  of  Alfred  in  England.  Long  had  they  labored  in 
the  solitude  of  their  cloisters  to  enlarge  the  scope  of  their  learning. 
Assiduously  had  they  multiplied  copies  of  precious  manuscripts  and  of 
their  own  works.  Zealously  had  they  striven  to  find  laymen  willing 
to  purchase  and  study  those  works  and  listen  to  their  instructions. 
At  last  they  persuaded  Charlemagne  to  establish  a  school  in  Paris,  and 
Alfred  to  found  a  university  at  Oxford,  in  order  to  educate  aspirants 
for  the  priesthood  and  form  doctors  of  theology.  Nothing  was 
thought  of  but  to  cultivate  the  kind  and  extent  of  learning  then 
existing.  It  was  natural  to  procure  for  these  schools  copies  of  all  the 
books  then  to  be  found.  Few,  indeed,  were  these — as  brief  sketches 
of  Latin  grammar,  a  few  Latin  vocabularies,  a  meagre  treatise  on 


THE  BOOK-MEN.  291 

arithmetic  and  geometr}^,  and  a  stray  copy  of  the  philosophical  work 
by  Porphyry,  and  another  by  Boetius.  The  rest  was  all  Christian 
theology  and  philosophy,  such  as  the  works  of  St.  Augustine  and 
other  fathers,  besides  the  Bible  and  the  canons  of  the  Church.  The 
savant  chosen  for  Paris  was  the  monk  Alcuin,  and  the  scholar  selected 
for  Oxford  was  another  monk,  Grimbaldus. 

The  deed  was  done.  A  school  was  established.  Men  were  offered 
a  great  opportunity  of  becoming  book-worms,  and  consequently  to 
think  and  theorize.  The  result  was  inevitable.  To  meditate,  they 
had  to  exercise  their  reasoning  faculty,  while  they  studied  the  philos- 
ophy they  found  in  the  few  books  they  had,  and  pondered  over  theol- 
ogy— theology  and  ancient  philosophy  as  harmonized  with  dogma. 

One  of  the  teachers  who  succeeded  Alcuin  was  a  doctor  of  philos- 
ophy named  John  Scotus  Erigenus,  an  Irishman  by  birth.  He  wrote 
philosophical  treatises  in  which  a  new  question  was  raised.  This  ques- 
tion was,  whether  an  abstract  term  or  a  word — such,  for  instance,  as 
the  word  "  humanity" — represented  a  real  being ;  an  essence  in  nature ; 
a  real  and  single  thing  existing  independent  of  any  individual.  Not 
whether  there  were  many  individual  men  included  by  a  process  of 
thought  under  a  general  name,  but  whether  that  general  name  "  hu- 
manity "  was  not  the  name  of  a  reality,  antecedent  in  creation  and  in 
time  to  the  existence  of  any  individual — antecedent  to  Adam  himself. 

Vain  as  this  question  would  seem,  it  raised  a  great  debate  among 
the  clerks  and  doctors.  Soon  parties  were  formed  among  them,  pro 
and  con.  The  one  party  got  the  name  of  EEALISTS,  the  other  that 
of  NOMINALISTS.  Minds  became  excited,  curiosity  was  aroused.  In 
order  to  prove  one  opinion  or  the  other,  information  was  sought  in 
every  direction.  Every  scrap  which  could  be  found  of  Plato's  and 
Aristotle's  works  was  rescued  from  oblivion,  and  quoted  as  authority 
by  one  or  the  other  side.  Other  ancient  books  were  disinterred.  The 
savants  began  to  investigate  natural  phenomena,  and,  above  all,  to 
closely  scrutinize  man  himself,  physically  and  intellectually. 

Though  the  question  in  debate  might  appear  at  this  day  quite 
frivolous  and  easily  answered,  yet  in  those  times  it  was  necessary  as  a 
first  step  in  the  progress  of  getting  rid  of  the  fundamental  errors  and 
prejudices  prevalent  even  among  the  savants.  We  must  not  lose  sight 
of  the  mental  condition  of  all  men  in  those  times.  If  we  keep  this 
in  view,  we  shall,  instead  of  despising  the  men  who  first  put  the  ques- 
tion just  stated,  wonder  how  at  that  stage  of  intellectual  progress  it 
could  have  suggested  itself  to  any  mind.  Certain  it  is  that  the  most 
learned  (so  small  was  their  amount  of  science,  and  so  peculiar  were 
the  settled  opinions  of  their  age)  were  not  ready  to  discuss  other 
subjects. 


292  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

They  soon  brought  their  discussions  before  their  pupils,  and  from 
among  these  the  debate  found  its  way  into  society:  kings,  nobles, 
and  burgesses  talked  about  it,  and  as  a  consequence  talked  about  the 
points  of  knowledge  necessary  to  solve  the  question.  This  was  a 
slow  operation  indeed.  It  took  eight  centuries  before  the  controversy 
was  settled. 

Yet,  in  time,  hundreds  of  other  questions  grew  out  of  this  single 
one,  and  it  became  necessary  to  settle  all  the  minor  objections  and 
issues  before  the  main  one  could  be  concluded  upon.  What  is  soul  ? 
what  is  mind  ?  what  is  reason  ?  what  is  feeling  ?  what  is  sensation  ? 
what  is  knowledge  ?  what  is  man  and  his  destiny  ?  what  is  revelation 
in  contradistinction  to  science  ?  how  far  can  science  go  without  re- 
quiring the  aid  of  revelation  ?  is  man  a  free  agent  ?  are  all  men  of  the 
same  species  ?  what  are  the  laws  of  thought  ? — in  one  word,  what  was 
true  or  not  true  in  everything  then  generally  held  to  be  true  ? 

We  are  far  from  wishing  it  to  be  understood  that  all  these  ques- 
tions were  immediately  suggested  or  started ;  but  the  book-men  (as 
their  sphere  of  thought  became  more  and  more  enlarged)  by  the 
sharp  contradiction  of  one  another,  found  it  necessary  to  suggest  and 
discuss  them  all.  They  did  so  boldly  and  conscientiously,  in  their 
contestations.  They  did  so,  though  many  among  them  were,  for  the 
anti-Christian  opinions  they  advanced,  condemned  as  heretics. 

But  we  are  too  hasty.  We  must  endeavor  to  show  the  different 
steps  of  this  evolution,  and  the  main  instrumentality  of  the  book-men 
and  the  theorists  in  every  advance  that  was  made. 

In  the  course  of  the  reign  of  Charlemagne,  the  doctors  of  philos- 
ophy composed  a  calendar,  and  proposed  the  months  as  we  have  them 
now.  This  calendar  they  formed  by  means  of  their  studies  of  such 
ancient  writings  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  as  they  had  been  able  to 
procure. 

They  prevailed  upon  Charlemagne  to  establish  this  calendar  by 
law.  By  doing  this,  Charlemagne  got  all  the  credit  of  the  work  itself ; 
but  to  a  certainty  he  was  incapable  of  performing  it.  Individually, 
he  was  an  ignorant  man ;  but  he  thirsted  for  knowledge,  glory,  and 
power ;  had  heard  from  the  scholars  of  the  ancient  grandeur,  monu- 
ments, and  literature  of  Rome  and  Greece ;  and  his  ambition  impelled 
him  to  carry  into  effect  any  suggestion  of  measures  likely  to  contribute 
to  his  glory.  He  was  devout,  and  sought  also  the  glory  of  God. 
Hence  he  encouraged  education,  for  he  found  it  furnished  men  capable 
of  serving  him  effectually  in  all  his  aspirations.  But  who  could  give 
education  ?  None  but  the  clerks  or  book-men,  who  were  then  the 
only  men  of  science. 

Passing  beyond  this  reign,  we  see  the  effects  of  this  policy  gradu- 


THE  BOOK-MEN.  293 

ally  developing  themselves.  During  the  tenth  century,  the  arithmet- 
ical figures  we  now  use  to  write  down  numbers  were  first  introduced 
into  Europe.  Previously  the  Boman  letters  I,  V,  X,  L,  C,  etc.,  had 
been  employed  to  express  numeric  quantities.  The  advantage  of  the 
new  method  we  can  all  appreciate,  for  it  is  the  method  we  all  use  at 
present.  But  who  first  introduced  and  taught  this  improvement  in 
arithmetical  notation  with  all  the  facilities  it  affords  for  the  calcula- 
tions ?  We  owe  the  importation  to  the  book-men  who  travelled  to 
acquire  knowledge  from  the  Arabs  who  had  conquered  Spain,  and 
whose  schools  at  Cordova  had  acquired  great  celebrity.  Thus  we  see 
the  advance  of  science  was  from  one  set  of  book-men  to  another  set 
of  book-men,  and  from  their  schools  to  the  people. 

In  this  and  the  preceding  century  too,  we  find  that  it  had  become 
a  common  practice  for  the  doctors  of  philosophy  and  theology  to 
challenge  each  other  to  public  debates ;  and  that  it  became  fashion- 
able for  the  gentry  to  be  present  at  these  intellectual  duels,  where 
thought  met  thought  in  a  struggle  to  convince  of  truths  or  convict  of 
error. 

From  theologians  arose  the  most  distinguished  philosophers  of  the 
times.  We  could,  in  our  advanced  state  of  knowledge,  consider  the 
scientific  opinions  they  advanced  as  unworthy  of  our  serious  considera- 
tion ;  but  then  they  were  of  the  utmost  importance,  in  this,  that  they 
were  incitements  to  thought  and  to  further  investigation.  This  was 
the  main  thing  in  an  age  of  intellectual  obscurity,  to  bring  forth 
more  and  more  light  from  the  first  sparks  of  truth.  The  mind  once 
awakened,  curiosity  and  reflection  once  aroused,  a  process  of  develop- 
ment of  right  reason  was  inaugurated,  which  in  time  spread  itself 
from  the  mind  of  man  over  all  nature. 

This  takes  place  in  the  midst  of  the  first  Crusades,  by  which  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  were  led  to  perish  disastrously ;  but  restless  and 
curious  philosophers  followed  in  the  wake  of  war  and  rapine,  and 
hovered  around  the  armies  to  bring  back  from  the  East  all  the  science 
they  could  gather.  We  often  read  of  the  improvement  in  science  the 
West  of  Europe  derived  from  the  Crusades ;  but  the  story  is  always 
told  so  as  to  leave  the  impression  that  the  plunder  the  mind  brought 
back  from  Constantinople,  Antioch,  Jerusalem,  and  Alexandria,  was 
gathered  there  by  the  boorish  soldiers  and  their  captains.  A  moment's 
thought  will,  however,  set  us  right  on  this  point.  Science  could  only 
be  gathered  by  men  already  partially  acquainted  with  science,  by  men 
having  a  taste  for  it,  by  the  scholars  and  the  book-men.  To  them, 
therefore,  must  we  award  all  the  praise  for  any  scientific  advantage 
which  Europe  derived  from  the  Crusades.  The  armies  were  intent 
upon  booty  and  power;  the  philosophers  who  followed  them  were 


294  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

seeking  for  new  truths ;  and  the  advance  of  knowledge  that  they  re- 
turned with  is  one  of  the  benefits  the  West  of  Europe  derived  from 
the  Crusades. 

Let  us  note  some  of  the  most  important  prizes  they  carried  home. 
At  Amalfi,  a  port  in  the  southern  part  of  Italy,  a  stopping-place  for 
the  Crusaders,  they  discovered  a  copy  of  the  Institutes  and  Pandects 
of  Roman  Law,  a  work  which  had  been  long  lost  to  the  world.  From 
the  Arabians  of  Spain  or  Alexandria  they  procured  the  works  of  Plato 
and  Aristotle,  as  well  as  other  learned  treatises  of  ancient  sages.  These 
they  studied  and  commented  on  with  assiduity,  each  one  according  to 
the  bent  of  his  mind.  Hence,  in  time  we  find  the  learned  men  not 
only  becoming  numerous,  but  divided  into  classes.  Some  follow  the 
study  of  religion,  humanity,  and  mind ;  others  devote  themselves  to 
history,  grammar,  and  poetry  ;  others  to  law ;  others  to  mathematics 
and  astronomy,  and  others  to  architecture.  But  we  must  keep  in  view 
that  all  these  sciences  and  arts  were  yet  in  a  crude  state,  far,  far 
beneath  what  they  are  at  this  day.  The  book-men,  the  theorists,  the 
philosophers,  had  centuries  of  research,  discussion,  and  reflection  to 
accomplish,  and  numberless  labors  to  undergo,  before  producing  the 
good  harvest  we  are  now  enjoying. 

Thus,  in  the  thirteenth  century  the  book-men  and  their  disciples, 
the  lawyers,  politicians,  poets,  painters,  masons,  astronomers,  architects, 
navigators,  physicians,  and  all  other  seekers  and  distributors  of  knowl- 
edge, had  hosts  of  adherents  among  the  masses.  Hence  the  practical 
results  of  the  labors  of  the  scholars  were  becoming  more  apparent. 

In  religion,  St.  Thomas  produces  his  Sum  of  Theology,  and  brings 
the  scholastic  philosophy  to  its  perfection.  In  politics,  the  yeomanry 
of  England,  instigated  by  Archbishop  Langton,  a  book-man,  demand 
and  obtain  Magna  Charta — that  is  to  say,  no  taxes  without  repre- 
sentation, trial  by  jury,  habeas  corpus,  and  no  taxes  without  the  con- 
sent of  Parliament — while  in  Florence  a  democratic  constitution  is 
established  by  the  people.  In  science,  the  labors  of  the  alchemists 
and  astrologers  are  progressing  toward  the  first  positive  dawn  of 
chemistry  and  astronomy ;  and  Roger  Bacon,  the  first  of  the  great 
prophets  of  natural  science,  reveals  some  of  the  most  important  secrets 
of  chemistry.  Eoger  Bacon,  the  first  of  the  natural  philosophers,  who 
was  he  ?  History  answers — a  book-man,  a  monk,  a  solitary  student  of 
the  works  of  his  predecessors  in  philosophy  and  theology.  In  the  arts, 
Gothic  architecture  raises  a  worthy  tribute  to  Heaven.  We  also  find 
that  in  this  century  navigation  begins  to  improve  and  commerce  to  be 
developed,  particularly  in  England  and  in  Italy ;  and  the  learned  take 
advantage  of  the  facilities  thus  afforded  to  undertake  voyages  in  search 
of  geographical  and  other  knowledge.  Among  the  rest,  Marco  Polo, 


THE  BOOK-MEN.  295 

a  student  of  languages,  travels  throughout  Asia,  finds  his  way  even  to 
China  and  Japan  (a  most  wonderful  feat  in  those  days),  and,  on  his 
return,  writes  an  acco.unt  of  his  travels ;  and  his  book,  at  a  later  day, 
serves  (among  other  things)  to  induce  the  discovery  of  America  by 
Columbus. 

We  now  enter  the  fourteenth  century,  and  amid  the  many  practical 
consequences  of  the  dissemination  of  knowledge  from  its  original 
source,  the  book-men  and  philosophers,  we  might,  unless  we  consider 
the  necessity  of  the  case,  lose  sight  of  the  starting-point.  In  Spain, 
Alfonso  the  Wise  gives  his  people  the  laws  of  the  Seven  Partides, 
compiled  by  philosophical  jurisconsults  from  the  Koman  law.  In 
France,  the  States-General,  or  Grand  Parliament,  is  convoked  by 
Philip  le  Bel,  and,  after  him,  Louis  X.  makes  the  Parliament  a  per- 
manent institution  for  the  sanction  of  all  laws.  By  and  by  the  serfs 
and  peasantry  acquire  their  freedom  and  gain  many  valuable  rights — 
not,  however,  without  insurrection  and  bloodshed.  Marcel  in  Paris 
and  the  Jacquerie  in  the  provinces  strike  for  liberty.  In  England,  the 
Commons  assert  their  privileges :  no  money  to  government  without 
their  consent ;  the  concurrence  of  the  Commons  with  the  Lords  neces- 
sary for  all  laws ;  and  the  right  of  inquiry  and  impeachment  by  the 
Commons  established.  In  Switzerland,  William  Tell  leads  his  coun- 
trymen to  victory  and  national  independence  and  republican  institu- 
tions. In  Italy,  the  mariner's  compass  is  invented  by  Gioja  de  Amalfi. 
Dante,  Boccaccio,  and  Petrarch,  those  first  lights  of  the  dawn  of  polite 
literature,  compose  their  beautiful  romances  and  poems.  In  Germany, 
clocks  are  invented,  and  Schwartz  first  puts  gunpowder,  invented  by 
Roger  Bacon,  to  practical  use,  and  some  scientific  mechanic  builds  the 
first  paper-mill.  Previously  manuscripts  were  all  written  on  parch- 
ment. These  were  magnificent  results,  taking  place  in  the  midst  of 
terrible  persecution ;  but  we  understand  it  all  when  we  know  that  in 
spite  of  every  obstacle  and  opposition  the  book-men  had,  in  this  and 
the  preceding  centuries,  unceasingly  labored,  amid  the  capricious  favors 
and  disfavors  of  princes  and  kings,  to  establish  libraries,  schools,  and 
universities  everywhere.  They  succeeded  admirably,  and  every  gen- 
eration saw  the  increase  of  the  number  of  those  to  whom  the  benefits 
of  education  had  been  communicated.  Notwithstanding  the  fears  of 
despots,  the  trial  by  ordeal  began  to  fall  into  disrepute,  the  influence 
of  the  principles  of  the  laws  of  ancient  Rome  as  Christianized  by  Jus- 
tinian was  felt. 

At  last  we  reach  the  glorious  fifteenth  century,  ever  memorable  for 
the  invention  of  printing  and  the  discovery  of  America,  Why  was 
printing  invented  ?  Because  the  demand  for  books  had  directed  inven- 
tive genius  to  seek  a  substitute  for  the  laborious  and  costly  process 


2  9  G  ESS  A  YS— MIXED. 

of  copying.  Gutenberg,  the  inventor,  was  himself  a  lover  of  books 
and  a  scientific  mechanic.  Why  was  America  discovered  ?  Because 
schools  of  mathematics,  astronomy,  and  navigation  had  been  estab- 
lished at  Genoa,  in  one  of  which  Columbus  was  educated.  Thence, 
and  in  subsequent  life,  he  derived  the  benefits  of  the  labors  of  Lorenzo 
of  Pisa,  who  had  introduced  algebra  into  the  universities  of  Europe ; 
and  of  Miiller  and  Boehm,  who  had,  by  their  geometrical  researches 
and  theories,  demonstrated  the  rotundity  of  the  earth.  With  this 
knowledge,  confirmed  by  observation  during  his  early  life  as  a  navi- 
gator, and  the  works  of  Marco  Polo,  Columbus  projected  the  voyage 
which  resulted  in  the  discovery  of  the  Western  Continent.  But  print- 
ing and  the  rotundity  of  the  earth  were  not  the  only  consequences  of 
the  studies  of  book-men  in  the  fifteenth  century.  We  have  already 
mentioned  algebra,  and  have  time  only  to  state  that  the  establishment 
of  the  first  bank  at  Genoa,  the  Hanseatic  League,  the  voyage  of  Yasco 
de  Gama  around  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  the  first  working  of  coal- 
mines at  Newcastle,  Norwich,  the  first  drama,  the  final  systematization 
of  musical  notation,  all  took  place  in  the  fifteenth  century.  We  should 
also  have  shown  how  the  study  of  aesthetical  principles  in  this  and 
the  preceding  century,  by  the  societies  and  guilds  of  masons  and 
architects,  endowed  the  world  with  great  painters  and  architects 
and  sculptors — Benvenuto,  Raphael,  Angelo,  Titian,  and  many  more 
who  have  left  behind  them  imperishable  monuments  of  their  studies 
and  genius. 

Need  we  look  back  to  recapitulate  and  confirm  the  fact  that  the 
highest  source,  continuous  movers,  and  central  custodians  of  the  studies 
which  caused  these  great  events  were  book-men,  school-men,  and  the- 
ologists  ?  Let  us  rather  look  forward  into  succeeding  centuries,  and 
merely  mention  the  names  of  Erasmus,  Thomas  More,  Francis  Bacon, 
Descartes,  Tycho  Brahe,  Kepler,  Galileo,  Newton,  Dalton,  Lavoisier, 
Shakespeare,  Harvey.  But  no!  the  names  of  the  studious  thinkers 
who  from  their  cabinets  and  laboratories  have  revolutionized  the 
world,  and  to  whom  we  owe  the  grand  and  beautiful  civilization  and 
works — arts,  machines,  products,  conveniences,  political  science,  lib- 
erty, commerce,  etc. — which  we  now  enjoy,  would  take  hours  to  enu- 
merate. There  is  not  a  development  of  science  or  art  that  cannot  be 
traced  back  to  the  "  eureka  "  of  some  solitary,  plodding  book-man. 

Popular  Science  Monthly,  1882. 


DUELLING. 

BY    ETIENNE    MAZUKEAU. 

MAZUREAU,  born  in  Rochelle,  France,  in  1777;  died  in  New  Orleans 
May  25,  1849.      Vide  p.  55.] 

DOES  reason  justify  it?  "We  see  two  bipeds  in  human  shape 
stationed  opposite  to  each  other,  armed  with  swords,  guns,  or  pistols. 
Yesterday  they  were  at  peace  with  each  other,  and  with  all  the  world. 
To-day  a  prejudice,  as  ridiculous  as  it  is  inhuman,  has  brought  them 
into  mortal  conflict.  They  wish  to  take  each  other's  lives !  A  single 
word  of  common  sense  would  reconcile  them;  they  are  deaf  to  its 
voice — they  must  have  Uood  ! 

Turn  away  your  eyes,  and  fix  them  upon  two  dogs  who  are  hun- 
grily watching  a  bone  which  a  butcher  has  cast  before  them.  With 
bristled  hair  and  flashing  eyes  and  open  mouth,  they  threaten  to  tear 
each  other  to  pieces.  At  a  signal  given  by  the  witnesses  of  the  bipeds, 
as  at  the  first  instinctive  movement  of  one  or  other  of  the  dogs,  the 
battle  begins,  and  is  only  ended  when  the  ground  is  stained  with  their 
blood. 

"Will  you  tell  us  whether  it  is  the  dog  who  is  elevated  to  an  equality 
with  the  man,  or  is  it  the  man  who  has  degraded  himself  to  a  level 
with  the  dog  ? 

What  does  the  duel  prove  ?  Two  men  are  suddenly  engaged  in  a 
quarrel.  Their  passions  are  inflamed ;  one  insults  the  other  by  calling 
him'  a  coward  or  a  scoundrel.  The  man  who  has  been  insulted  sends 
the  other  a  challenge,  which  is  accepted.  They  meet  and  fight,  and 
the  offender  triumphs !  Does  it  result  from  this  that  the  victim  of  a 
false  point  of  honor  is  either  a  scoundrel  or  a  coward  ? 

Two  individuals  are  engaged  in  political  discussion.  One  of  them 
advances  a  true  proposition,  which  wounds  the  other's  feelings.  It  is 
followed  by  his  giving  him  the  lie.  From  this  results  a  duel,  in  which 
the  one  who  gave  the  lie  kills  his  adversary.  Does  this  prove  that 
the  man  who  was  killed  did  not  speak  the  truth  ? 

Is  the  duellist  a  patriot  ?  To  the  duellist,  a  few  minutes  of  what  is 
called  courage  suffices.  The  true  soldier,  who  is  ready  to  give  his  life 
to  his  country,  must  have  constant  and  unwavering  fortitude.  With 
a  very  few  exceptions,  the  professional  duellist  is  as  bad  a  soldier  as 
citizen. 


298  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

Formerly  the  party  who  was  insulted  had  the  choice  of  weapons. 
Nowadays  a  monster,  steeped  in  blood,  insults  the  man  who  has 
offended  him,  or  rather  the  man  who  he  imagines  has  insulted  him, 
with  the  hope  that  he  will  demand  satisfaction  of  him.  He  is  fully 
prepared.  On  receiving  the  challenge,  he  answers  that  he  is  ready, 
and  will  be  happy  to  send  a  bullet  through  the  brains  of  his  adver- 
sary. 

Thus  the  offender,  in  insulting  his  enemy,  whom  he  knows  to  be 
inferior  in  skill  or  physical  force,  virtually  says  to  him,  "  Swallow  this 
insult,  or  I  will  kill  you ;  I  have  abused  you,  and  I  wish  to  take  your 
life.  I  constitute  myself  the  judge  in  settling  this  difference  between 
us.  I  have  condemned  you,  and  I  wish  to  be  your  executioner." 

Does  the  refusal  of  a  challenge  confer  disgrace?  Mirabeau  and 
the  Marquis  du  Chatelet  were  both  members  of  the  Constituent  Assem- 
bly of  France,  and  leaders  of  opposite  parties.  It  happened  that  Mira- 
beau used  some  expressions  in  debate  which  the  Marquis  was  pleased 
to  consider  as  somewhat  offensive,  and  sent  him  a  challenge.  Mira- 
beau replied  to  him  in  the  following  words : 

MONSIEUR  LE  MARQUIS  : 

It  would  be  very  unfair  for  a  man  of  sense  like  me  to  be  killed  by  a  fool  like 
you. 

I  have  the  honor  to  be,  with  the  highest  consideration,  etc., 

MIRABEAU. 


THE  JUDICIAKY.* 

BY   FKANQOIS-XAVIER   MARTIN. 

IER  MARTIN  was  born  in  Marseilles,  France,  March  17,  1762.  At  the 
age  of  eighteen  he  emigrated  to  Martinique  ;  but  little  is  known  of  his  career  in  that 
island.  Landing  in  the  United  States  in  1786,  he  took  up  his  residence  in  Newbern, 
N.  C.  There  he  was  engaged  for  many  years  in  the  printer's  trade.  During  this  period, 
also,  he  had  been  admitted  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven  to  the  bar  of  the  State.  He 
translated  and  compiled  many  useful  law- works,  and  wrote  a  History  of  North  Carolina. 
In  1806-7  he  served  as  a  member  of  the  State  Legislature.  In  1809  President  Madison 
appointed  him  Judge  of  the  Territory  of  Mississippi ;  but  the  following  year  he  was 
transferred  to  the  bench  of  the  Superior  City  Court  of  the  Territory  of  Orleans.  In 
Louisiana  he  afterwards  filled  successively  the  offices  of  Attorney-General,  Associate 
Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court,  and  Chief-Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court ;  and  in  1845 
he  retired  to  private  life.  His  History  of  Louisiana  (1827)  exhibits,  in  a  marked  degree, 
the  legal  quality  of  his  mind  :  it  is  clear,  logical,  and  critical,  but,  in  the  main,  barren 
of  ornament.  During  the  latter  years  of  his  life  he  was  blind.  He  died  December  10, 
1846.] 

IT  is  the  duty  of  history  to  record  the  virtues  and  errors  of  con- 
spicuous individuals.  In  free  governments,  precedents  are  to  be 
dreaded  from  good  and  popular  characters  only.  Men  of  a  different 
cast  can  never  obtain  sufficient  sanction  for  their  measures  to  make 
their  acts  an  example  for  others.  Hence  the  necessity  of  exposing  the 
false  grounds  of  the  actions  of  the  former,  and  pointing  out  the  evil 
consequences  to  which  they  lead. 

The  history  of  every  age  and  every  country  shows  that  the  higher 
man  is  placed  in  authority,  the  greater  his  necessity  of  bridling  his 
passions ;  lest  others  should  believe  that  anger  and  resentment  have 
prompted  measures  which  should  have  had  no  other  motive  but  public 
utility,  and  that  a  temper  which  can  bear  no  contradiction,  and  a 
will  spurning  all  control,  are  the  characteristics  of  a  man  in  power. 
It  teaches  us  how  important  it  is  he  should  not  select  for  his  advisers 
men  who  have  enlisted  themselves  in  the  ranks  of  those  who  oppose 
the  measures  of  government — men  having  private  interests  to  subserve, 
private  enemies  to  gratify,  and  private  injuries  to  avenge;  that  he 
should  abstain  from  acting  personally  in  cases  which  present  great 
latitude  for  the  improper  indulgence  of  his  feelings,  and  leave  to  dis- 
passionate tribunals  the  punishment  of  those  who  have  wounded  his 
pride  by  setting  his  authority  at  defiance ;  refraining  to  become  the 
*  [History  of  Louisiana.} 


300  ESS  A  YS-MIXED. 

prosecutor  and  arbiter  of  his  own  grievances  and  to  place  himself  in  a 
situation  in  which,  reason  having  but  little  control,  he  may  do  great 
injustice ;  and  suspicion  always,  and  censure  often,  attaches  to  his 
determination. 

May  the  citizens  of  these  States  ever  find,  in  the  annals  of  their 
country,  reasons  to  cherish  and  venerate  that  branch  of  government, 
without  the  protection  of  which  it  is  in  vain  that  the  invader  is  re- 
pelled ;  the  benign  influence  of  which  man  feels  before  he  enters  the 
portals  of  life ;  which  guards  the  rights  of  the  unborn  child,  throws 
its  broad  shield  over  helpless  infancy ;  the  solicitude  of  which  watches 
over  man's  interests  \vhenever  disease  or  absence  prevents  his  attention 
to  them ;  to  which  the  woodsman  commits  his  humble  roof  and  its 
inmates,  in  the  morning  when,  shouldering  his  axe,  he  whistles  his 
way  to  the  forest,  assured  it  will  guard  them  from  injury,  and  secure 
to  him  the  produce  of  his  labor ;  from  which  the  poor  and  the  rich  are 
sure  of  equal  justice ;  which  neither  the  ardor  civiumprava  jiibentium, 
nor  the  vultus  instantis  tyranni,  will  prevent  from  coming  to  the  relief 
of  the  oppressed  ;  which  secures  the  enjoyment  of  every  domestic, 
social,  and  political  right,  and  does  not  abandon  man  after  he  has 
passed  the  gates  of  death — leaving  him  in  the  grave  the  consoling 
hope  that  the  judiciary  power  of  his  country  will  cause  him  to  hover 
awhile,  like  a  beneficent  shade,  over  the  family  he  reared,  directing 
the  disposition  of  the  funds  his  care  accumulated  for  their  support, 
and  thus,  by  a  sort  of  magic,  allow  him  to  continue  to  have  a  will 
after  he  has  ceased  to  have  an  existence. 


THE  MODEL  JUDGE. 

BY    GUSTAVUS    SCHMIDT. 

[GUSTAVUS  SCHMIDT  was  born  in  Stockholm,  Sweden,  of  a  distinguished  family,  in 
1793.  Being  of  an  adventurous  disposition,  he  left  home,  and  went  to  New  Orleans, 
where  he  applied  himself  to  the  study  and  practice  of  law.  He  soon  gained  high  rank 
at  a  bar  of  exceptional  excellence.  His  briefs  were  models  of  legal  precision,  marked  by 
a  style  which,  while  not  ornate,  abounded  in  scholarly  touches.  He  died,  while  on  a 
trip  to  Virginia,  September  21,  1877.] 

FEW  names  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  judicial  annals  of  any  country, 
entitled  to  greater  respect  than  that  of  John  Marshall,  the  late  vener- 
able Chief  Justice  of  the  United  States  ;  and  there  are  few  lives,  which, 
like  his,  present  such  an  harmonious  assemblage  of  the  best  and  noblest 
qualities  which  adorn  public  as  well  as  private  life. 

A  biography  of  this  distinguished  individual  would  be  an  impor- 
tant and  instructive  acquisition  to  our  literature ;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
that  among  the  many  talented  men  of  his  native  State,  several  of  whom 
have  had  the  very  best  opportunities  of  appreciating  his  worth,  some 
one  will  be  found  disposed  to  discharge  this  debt,  which  is  due  to  his 
memory,  and  which  is  also  due  to  Virginia  and  to  the  United  States, 
as  the  heirs  of  his  fame,  and  as  participators  of  the  lustre  which  his 
talents  and  his  virtues  have  imparted  to  the  land  which  gave  him 
birth. 

That  this  task  will  some  day  be  ably  accomplished,  we  cannot  for 
a  moment  doubt ;  and  in  the  meantime  we  shall  attempt  to  arrange 
such  reminiscences  of  his  life  and  character  as  we  have  treasured  up 
during  a  residence  of  about  eight  years  in  the  city  of  Richmond, 
where  we  had  frequent  opportunities  of  seeing  him  both  in  public  and 
private  life. 

John  Marshall  was  a  man  whom  no  one  could  approach,  while  in 
the  discharge  of  his  official  duties,  without  feeling  respect,  and  whom 
no  one  ever  knew  intimately  without  being  inspired  with  love  and 
reverence  for  his  character. 

When  we  first  saw  Judge  Marshall  he  was  in  the  zenith  of  his 
fame,  and,  though  advanced  in  years,  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  his  phys- 
ical as  well'  as  intellectual  faculties.  We  had  already  acquired  suffi- 
cient experience  of  the  world  to  be  aware  that  reputation,  like  remote 
objects,  often  derives  its  enchantment  from  the  distance,  and  that 


302  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

many  an  individual  whose  name  has  been  trumpeted  far  and  wide  by 
renown,  and  whom  our  imagination  has  invested  with  the  attributes 
of  a  demi-god,  frequently  dwindles  into  a  very  ordinary  mortal  upon 
closer  inspection ;  and  yet  we  were  not  disappointed. 

There  was  an  expression  of  benevolence,  dignity,  and  reflection  in 
the  appearance  of  Mr.  Marshall,  calculated  to  make  a  highly  favorable 
impression  on  every  one  who  saw  him  ;  but  few  persons  would  be  apt 
to  divine,  at  first  glance,  that  under  this  calm  and  sedate  exterior 
dwelt  a  mind,  which,  for  depth  of  thought,  reach  of  comprehension, 
and  power  of  analyzing  and  of  reducing  the  most  complex  questions 
to  their  simplest  expression,  had  scarcely  an  equal.  And,  indeed,  the 
great  superiority  of  his  mind  consisted  rather  in  the  harmonious 
development  of  the  perceptive  and  reflective  faculties,  than  in  any 
undue  or  remarkable  preponderance  of  any  one  intellectual  quality. 

The  extent  of  Mr.  Marshall's  legal  attainments  is  sufficiently 
attested  by  his  decisions  while  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
the  Union,  among  which  there  are  many  which,  on  account  of  the 
familiar  acquaintance  they  display  with  the  principles  of  international, 
public,  and  common  law,  and  the  perspicuity  and  elegance  of  their 
style,  as  well  as  the  convincing  force  of  the  reasoning,  must  be  viewed 
as  models  of  judicial  eloquence.  And  yet  he  can  hardly  be  regarded  as 
a  learned  lawyer,  in  the  sense  in  which  this  word  is  often  employed ; 
as  his  acquaintance  with  the  Eoman  jurisprudence,  as  well  as  with  the 
laws  of  foreign  countries,  was  not  very  extensive.  He  was  what  is 
called  a  common-law  lawyer,  in  the  best  and  noblest  acceptation  of  the 
term.  He  was  educated  for  the  bar  at  a  period  when  digests,  abridg- 
ments, and  all  the  numerous  facilities  which  now  smooth  the  path  of 
the  law  student,  were  almost  unknown,  and  when  you  often  sought  in 
vain  in  the  Reporters,  which  usually  wore  the  imposing  form  of  folios, 
even  for  an  index  of  the  decisions,  and  when  marginal  notes  of  the 
points  determined  in  a  cause  was  a  luxury  not  to  be  either  looked  for 
or  expected.  At  this  period,  when  the  principles  of  the  common  law 
had  to  be  studied  in  the  black-letter  pages  of  Coke  upon  Littleton,  a 
work  equally  remarkable  for  quaintness  of  expression,  profundity  of 
research,  and  the  absence  of  all  method  in  the  arrangement  of  its  very 
valuable  materials ;  when  the  rules  of  pleading  had  to  be  looked  for  in 
Chief  Justice  Saunders's  Reports,  while  the  doctrinal  parts  of  a  juris- 
prudence, based  almost  exclusively  on  precedents,  had  to  be  sought 
after  in  the  Reports  of  Dyer,  Plowden,  Coke,  Popham,  Leonard, 
Yelverton,  and  others — it  was  then  no  easy  task  to  become  an  able 
lawyer,  and  it  required  no  common  share  of  industry  and  perseverance 
to  amass  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  law  to  make  even  a  decent 
appearance  in  the  forum.  At  this  time,  when  the  viginti  annorum 


THE  MODEL  JUDGE.  303 

lucubrationes  were  hardly  deemed  sufficient  to  make  a  respectable 
lawyer,  he  succeeded,  in  a  comparatively  short  time,  to  master  the 
elements  of  the  common  law,  and  to  place  himself  at  the  head  of  the 
profession  in  Virginia,  and  on  a  level  with  a  Eandolph,  a  Pendleton, 
and  a  Wythe,  names  which  will  forever  remain  illustrious  in  the  legal 
profession.  That  this  was  not  achieved  without  great  labor  will 
readily  be  believed,  and  it  aifords  a  convincing  proof  both  of  the 
energy  of  character  which  he  possessed,  and  of  his  aptitude  for  study 
and  reflection ;  and  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  habits  of  labo- 
rious application  which  he  acquired  during  this  period  exercised  a 
beneficial  influence  on  his  after  life,  and  paved  the  way  of  his  future 
greatness. 

The  study  of  the  common  law,  with  its  numerous  precedents,  when 
pursued  with  the  enthusiastic  love  of  the  science  which  is  requisite  to 
attain  distinction  in  it,  is  admirably  adapted  to  make  us  acquainted 
with  the  diversity  of  facts  to  which  the  law  has  to  be  applied ;  to  beget 
readiness  and  acuteness  in  distinguishing  between  the  principles  of  the 
law,  and  to  train  the  mind  for  the  practical  exercise  of  the  profession. 
The  study  of  the  abstract  principles  of  jurisprudence  seems,  on  super- 
ficial examination,  to  afford  more  certain  results,  and  is  certainly  more 
flattering  to  our  habitual  indolence  and  love  of  generalization.  For 
there  appears  to  be  no  necessity  to  study  with  attention  a  variety  of 
adjudged  cases  in  search  of  a  principle  common  to  all,  when  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  principle  itself  may  be  acquired  by  reading  a  few  lines  of 
an  elementary  author.  But  those  who  reason  thus  seem  to  forget 
that  the  principles  of  law  are  extremely  numerous ;  that  they  are,  in 
the  course  of  the  administration  of  justice,  to  be  applied  to  an  infinite 
variety  of  facts ;  and  that  it  requires  great  attention  and  familiarity 
both  with  the  facts  and  the  law  to  determine  the  relative  importance 
of  the  different  rules  of  law  applicable  to  a  given  series  of  facts,  and 
much  perspicacity  and  practice  to  select  the  governing  principle  for 
the  decision  of  a  cause.  Now,  this  familiarity  is  certainly  more  likely 
to  be  possessed  by  him  who  has  acquired  a  knowledge  of  principles  by 
a  laborious  analysis  of  a  great  number  of  cases  actually  decided,  than 
by  him  who  merely  knows  the  same  principles  from  having  studied 
them  in  the  abstract.  Besides,  the  principles  acquired  by  the  analyti- 
cal method  are  generally  more  firmly  fixed  in  the  mind,  and  more 
readily  applied. 

Perhaps  the  only  real  danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the  study  of 
the  law  in  the  decisions  of  adjudged  cases  is,  that  on  account  of  the 
multiplicity  of  adjudications,  few  minds  possess  sufficient  comprehen- 
siveness and  vigor  to  grasp  the  general  principles,  and  that  lawyers 
educated  in  this  school  are  more  apt  to  become  what  is  called  case 


304  USSA  YS— MIXED. 

hunters,  than  scientific  jurists.  It  is  unfortunately  much  easier  to 
rely  on  the  authority  of  others  in  forming  opinions,  than  to  form 
them  for  ourselves  after  laborious  investigation ;  and  it  is  agreeable 
to  the  natural  carelessness  of  most  men  rather  to  adopt  current  opin- 
ions, than  to  elaborate  any  of  their  own. 

Judge  Marshall's  mind  was  of  a  very  different  order,  and  pos- 
sessed a  vigor  and  rapidity  of  analysis  which  was  truly  remarkable, 
and  had  the  appearance  of  an  intuitive  and  almost  instinctive  percep- 
tion of  the  points  on  which  depended  the  resolution  of  the  most  com- 
plicated questions.  Intimately  acquainted  with  the  principles  of  the 
common  law,  and  indeed  with  the  whole  range  of  constitutional  and 
public  law,  no  sophistry  or  argument,  how  ingeniously  soever  it  might 
have  been  prepared,  and  no  matter  what  array  of  authorities  might 
be  brought  to  its  support,  could  mislead  his  judgment,  or  induce  him 
to  give  his  assent  to  a  proposition  which  was  not  intrinsically  true. 
He  had  a  rectitude  of  the  heart  as  well  as  of  the  head,  which  enabled 
him  to  detect  all  fallacies  of  an  argument,  how  skilfully  soever  they 
were  concealed  from  the  eye  of  an  ordinary  observer. 

On  the  bench  the  Chief  Justice  was  a  model  of  what  a  judge 
ought  to  be,  and  though  we  have  seen  many  judges  while  in  the  dis- 
charge of  their  functions,  both  in  this  and  other  countries,  we  have 
never  met  with  one  who  approached  so  near  the  beau  ideal  of  a  per- 
fect magistrate. 

In  ordinary  life  his  conduct  was  affable  and  polite;  and  when 
entering  the  court-room,  which  was  usually  before  the  appointed 
hour,  for  he  was  extremely  punctual  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties, 
his  conversation  was  cheerful,  and  evinced  a  remarkable  freedom  of 
mind,  which  in  men  of  eminent  attainments  in  any  particular  science 
is  almost  an  invariable  criterion  of  superiority  of  intellect. 

In  his  colloquies  on  such  occasions  with  the  members  of  the  bar, 
which  were  frequent,  no  attempt  was  ever  made  to  claim  superiority, 
either  on  account  of  his  age  or  his  great  acquirements ;  neither  was 
there  any  effort  to  acquire  popularity ;  but  his  conduct  was  evidently 
dictated  by  a  benevolent  interest  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  and  a 
relish  for  social  intercourse.  The  moment,  however,  he  took  his  seat 
on  the  bench,  his  character  assumed  a  striking  change.  He  still  con- 
tinued the  same  kind  and  benevolent  being  as  before ;  but  instead  of 
the  gay  aad  cheerful  expression  which  distinguished  the  features  while 
engaged  in  social  conversation,  his  brow  assumed  a  thoughtfulness  and 
an  air  of  gravity  and  reflection,  which  invested  his  whole  appearance 
with  a  certain  indefinable  dignity,  which  bore,  however,  not  the  slight- 
est resemblance  to  sternness.  The  impression  made  on  the  beholder 
was  that  of  a  man  engaged  in  some  highly  important  and  grave  delib- 


THE  MODEL  JUDGE.  305 

eration,  which  he  apparently  pursued  with  pleasure,  but  which  at  the 
same  time  seemed  to  absorb  his  whole  attention,  and  required  the  full 
exercise  of  his  faculties. 

During  the  examination  of  the  evidence,  as  well  as  on  the  argument 
of  a  cause,  he  was  all  attention,  and  listened  to  everything  that  was 
said  on  both  sides  with  a  patience  which  was  truly  extraordinary ; 
and  we  do  not  recollect  in  the  course  of  the  six  years  that  we  con- 
stantly attended  the  sessions  of  the  Circuit  Court  of  the  United  States, 
at  Kichmond,  ever  to  have  seen  him  indicate  impatience  even  by  a 
gesture.  The  remarks  of  Bishop  Burnet  with  regard  to  Sir  Matthew 
Hale  apply  with  equal  force  to  Judge  Marshall :  "  Nothing  was  more 
admirable  in  him  than  his  patience.  He  did  not  affect  the  reputation 
of  quickness  and  despatch  by  a  hasty  and  captious  hearing  of  the 
counsel.  He  would  bear  with  the  meanest,  and  gave  every  man  his 
full  scope,  thinking  it  much  better  to  lose  time  than  patience."  We 
remember  on  some  few  occasions,  at  the  close  of  an  argument,  to  have 
heard  him  address  a  question  to  the  counsel  with  a  view,  either  to 
ascertain  whether  there  did  not  exist  some  legal  adjudications  in  rela- 
tion to  the  points  for  which  he  contended,  or  to  be  assured  that  he 
had  correctly  understood  his  propositions;  but  always  in  a  manner 
which  convinced  the  person  addressed,  that  his  sole  object  was  to 
obtain,  and  not  to  convey,  information.  He  always  acted  on  the 
principle  that  a  court  of  justice  was  a  sanctuary,  where  parties  had  a 
right  to  be  heard ;  that  though  the  law  had  wisely  interposed  a  special 
class  of  agents,  called  lawyers,  to  protect  the  interests  of  suitors,  not 
only  because  they  were  presumed  to  be  better  acquainted  with  the 
science  of  the  law,  but  also  to  prevent  the  tribunals  from  becoming 
the  arena  of  disputes,  which  the  passions  and  interests  of  the  parties 
would  not  fail  to  make  it,  if  they  were  permitted  personally  to  defend 
their  suits,  yet  the  advocates  of  a  cause  represented  their  clients  and 
were  entitled  to  be  heard ;  not  on  account  of  any  merit  or  privilege 
they  possessed  as  lawyers,  but  because  they  acted  in  behalf  of  the 
citizens  of  the  community,  for  whose  benefit  the  administration  of 
justice  was  created,  and  because  the  highest  and  the  lowest  member 
of  society  was  entitled  to  equal  favor  in  a  court  of  justice. 

Few  judges  seem  to  have  so  maturely  reflected  on  the  duties  of  a 
judge  as  Mr.  Marshall,  and  few  certainly  carried  into  the  practical 
administration  of  the  laws  so  profound  a  respect  for  the  rights  of  the 
citizen  as  he  did.  We  doubt  much,  whether  a  single  example  can  be 
adduced,  throughout  his  long  judicial  career,  of  a  party  or  his  counsel 
having  complained,  or  of  their  having  had  just  cause  to  complain,  of 
his  not  allowing  them  full  latitude  for  the  defence  of  a  cause.  Indeed, 
so  firmly  was  his  love  of  justice  seated,  and  so  desirous  was  he  to 
"20 


306  ESSAYS— MIXED. 

decide  correctly  and  after  a  full  knowledge  of  all  the  facts  and  circum- 
stances of  a  cause,  that  he  listened  with  greater  attention  to  the  argu- 
ments of  young  lawyers,  if  possible,  than  to  those  that  were  more 
experienced.  He  did  this  because  he  seemed  to  think  that  the  more 
feebly  a  cause  was  defended,  the  more  it  was  necessary  that  the 
experience  of  the  judge  should  protect  the  rights  of  the  suitor,  who 
was  not  justly  chargeable  with  the  deficiencies  of  his  advocate  ;  since 
his  means  might  possibly  not  have  enabled  him  to  procure  a  more 
skilful  one,  or  he  may  have  thought  that  since  his  defender  had  a 
license  to  practise  the  law  he  must  possess  sufficient  skill  for  his 
protection. 

He  probably  also  believed  that  clients  are  not  always  competent 
judges  of  the  legal  attainments  of  the  members  of  the  bar.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  it  is  certain  that  his  love  of  justice,  his  desire  to  adhere  to  the 
rules  of  law  and  to  understand  the  nature  of  a  cause  in  all  its  bearings, 
were  equally  conspicuous,  and  inspired  a  respect  for  his  opinions  which 
will  hardly  be  believed  by  those  who  have  not  witnessed  the  effects 
of  it.  This  respect  was  carried  so  far  that,  we  believe,  for  many  years 
previous  to  his  death,  none  of  his  decisions  in  the  Circuit  Court  was 
ever  appealed  from,  unless  he  had  himself  advised  the  party  cast  to 
appeal.  It  is  true  that  in  nearly  all  important  causes  he  expressed  a 
desire  that  his  opinion  might  be  submitted  to  the  revision  of  the 
Supreme  Court,  and  this  advice  was  always  given  with  a  sincere  desire 
that  it  should  be  followed,  although  in  most  instances  it  was  inopera- 
tive, on  account  of  the  settled  conviction  on  the  part  of  the  suitors 
that  it  would  be  nugatory. 

But  the  confidence  of  the  public  in  the  correctness  of  the  decisions 
of  Judge  Marshall  arose  not  only  from  the  causes  to  which  we  have 
already  adverted ;  but  likewise  from  a  firm  belief  not  only  of  the  sound- 
ness of  his  judgment,  but  of  his  ability  and  great  legal  learning,  of 
which  he  had  on  many  occasions  given  the  most  satisfactory  and  con- 
clusive proofs. 

Many  persons  are  still  alive,  who,  acting  either  as  jurors,  or  at- 
tracted by  the  trial  of  some  important  cause,  have  listened  for  days  to 
the  eloquent  discourses  of  the  eminent  lawyers  who  usually  attended 
the  Circuit  Court,  without  being  able  to  fix  their  opinions  as  to  the 
decision  which  ought  to  be  given  in  the  cause,  but  who,  after  hearing 
the  charge  of  the  judge  or  his  opinion  on  the  merits  of  the  controversy, 
felt  the  utmost  astonishment  at  the  apparent  simplicity  of  the  question 
in  dispute,  and  wondered  how  they  could  have  been  so  dull  as  not  to 
perceive  what  now  appeared  so  obvious. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  characteristics  of  Judge  Marshall's  mind 
was  his  great  facility  in  analyzing  the  most  complicated  questions,  and 


THE  MODEL  JUDGE.  307 

his  talent  for  presenting  them  to  his  auditors  in  a  manner  at  the  same 
time  perspicuous,  elegant,  and  striking.  He  usually  began  by  laying 
down  some  general  proposition  which  could  not  be' controverted,  and 
then  showed,  by  deductions  equally  clear  and  logical,  its  influence  on 
the  decision  of  the  cause.  His  premises  once  admitted,  the  conclusions 
were  irresistible ;  and  then  those  who  were  unwilling  to  yield  their 
assent  to  the  conclusions  were  unable  to  point  out  any  error  in  the 
reasoning.  The  celebrated  and  eccentric  John  Eandolph  is  said  to 
have  declared  in  Congress  on  some  occasion,  that  he  was  sure  that 
Chief  Justice  Marshall  had  interpreted  erroneously  a  certain  question 
of  constitutional  law,  but  he  defied  any  gentleman  to  point  out  in 
what  the  error  consisted.  This  declaration,  if  it  be  true,  as  we  have 
no  doubt,  proves  the  extraordinary  force  and  cogency  of  his  arguments, 
in  which  even  an  open  and  skilful  adversary  could  detect  no  flaw. 

It  is  the  happy  privilege  of  master  minds  to  subdue  all  difficulties, 
and  to  acquire  at  once,  and  by  a  vigorous  effort  of  the  will,  a  knowl-. 
edge  which  men  of  less  perfect  organizations  are  often  unable  to 
attain  by  long  and  laborious  study.  Of  this  fact,  Chief  Justice  Mar- 
shall was  a  most  striking  example ;  and  which,  we  are  sorry  to  add, 
had  in  some  instances  a  pernicious  influence  on  many  young  men  of 
promise,  who  were  studying  and  afterwards  practised  the  law  in 
Yirginia.  He  had  acquired  early  in  life  a  reputation  for  talents  and 
acquirements,  which  had  uniformly  increased  in  all  the  employments 
he  had  successively  occupied.  On  the  floor  of  the  Legislature  and  of 
Congress ;  in  the  cabinet,  as  well  as  when  representing  his  country 
abroad — in  every  station  he  was  found  not  only  perfectly  qualified  to 
fulfil  the  duties  imposed  on  him,  but  able  to  shed  lustre  on  the  post 
he  filled.  His  sociability  and  fondness  for  innocent  recreations,  which 
rendered  him  an  agreeable  and  welcome  companion  in  every  circle, 
induced  many  persons  to  believe  that  he  devoted  little  or  no  time  to 
study ;  and  hence  it  became  fashionable  among  the  young  men  of 
Richmond  and  elsewhere  to  affect  a  contempt  for  study,  and  to  rely 
exclusively  on  what  they  were  pleased  to  call  their  native  genius. 
That  they  completely  misunderstood  his  character  cannot  be  ques- 
tioned. Endowed  by  nature  with  quick  conception  and  uncommon 
energy,  he  engaged  in  everything  he  undertook  with  an  ardor  which 
seemed  to  absorb  his  faculties  for  the  moment ;  but  as  soon  as  he  had 
accomplished  his  purpose,  the  reaction  was  in  proportion  to  the  pre- 
vious tension  of  his  mind ;  and  he  was  never  more  cheerful  than  when 
he  had  completed  some  laborious  undertaking,  and  never  more  ready 
to  engage  anew  in  serious  study  than  when  he  had  just  abandoned 
some  gay  and  festive  conviviality. 

This  organization  is  not  uncommon  in  men  of  great  intellect,  who 


308  USSA  YS— MIXED. 

seem  to  require  constant  occupation  of  some  kind,  and  derive  relaxation 
from  what  others  would  consider  as  fatiguing.  Such  minds  are  like 
the  fertile  soil  of  our  Mississippi  bottoms,  which  never  stands  in  need 
of  repose ;  but  only  requires  a  judicious  rotation  of  crops  to  keep  it 
forever  productive. 

Mr.  Marshall,  notwithstanding  his  great  ability,  was  one  of  the 
most  modest  and  unassuming  men  that  we  have  ever  known.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  he  was  perfectly  conscious  of  his  worth,  for  he  had 
seen  too  much  of  the  tworld,  and  had  been  too  often  brought  in  con- 
tact with  men  of  acknowledged  talents,  not  to  be  aware  that  he  also 
was  a  man  of  merit ;  but  the  standard  of  perfection  which  he  strove 
to  attain  was  so  elevated  that  he  never  for  a  moment  supposed  that  he 
had  approached  it  near  enough  to  feel  the  least  emotion  of  pride.  He 
had  also  a  purer  and  a  loftier  motive  for  his  conduct ;  a  motive  inde- 
pendent of  all  earthly  considerations,  and  which  gave  to  the  whole 
tenor  of  his  life  its  harmony  and  grandeur.  He  had  very  early  in  life 
examined  the  evidences  of  the  Christian  religion,  and  the  result  was  a 
firm  conviction  of  the  truth  and  authenticity  of  its  doctrines,  which 
ever  after  became  the  guide  of  his  faith,  and  the  rule  which  governed 
his  conduct.  But  instead  of  inspiring  him  with  the  austerity  which  so 
often  characterizes  the  professors  of  religion,  and  which  usually  ren- 
ders them  so  unamiable  in  the  eyes  of  men  of  the  world,  his  faith  shed 
a  benignant  influence  over  every  action  of  his  life.  He  looked  upon 
the  world  as  the  most  glorious  effort  of  Supreme  power  and  benefi- 
cence, and  on  his  fellow-men  as  the  most  wonderful  production  of 
creation ;  and  he  viewed  their  foibles,  imperfections,  and  errors  with 
indulgence  and  charity,  which  he  felt  were  infinitely  inferior  to  what 
even  the  most  perfect  being  would  stand  in  need  of  when  required 
to  render  an  account  of  his  acts  before  the  Supreme  Euler  of  the 
Universe. 

It  is  impossible  to  conceive,  without  having  been  an  eye-witness, 
the  respect  and  veneration  felt  for  the  Chief  Justice  in  the  city  of 
Richmond,  which  was  the  place  of  his  habitual  residence  for  a  great 
number  of  years.  This  respect,  which  was  a  spontaneous  homage  paid 
to  his  virtues  and  talents,  exhibited  itself  frequently  in  the  most  affect- 
ing and  flattering  forms.  Personally  known  to  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  throughout  the  city,  and  usually  mentioned  by  the  familiar 
appellation  of  "  the  old  Chief,"  his  appearance  in  the  streets,  which 
occurred  every  day,  was  sure  to  excite  attention.  This  attention  was, 
however,  never  importunate  or  offensive,  but  mingled  with  the  affec- 
tionate regard  and  reverence  which  the  ancient  patriarchs  are  said  to 
have  inspired.  Passengers  never  failed  to  salute  him  with  respect ; 
noisy  disputants  ceased  their  clamors  on  his  approach,  and  the  very 


THE  MODEL  JUDGE.  309 

children  stopped  their  amusements  to  take  a  look  at  the  venerable  old 
man,  who  continued  his  road  apparently  unconscious  that  his  presence 
was  even  heeded.  The  same,  and  even  more  marked  attention  was 
paid  to  him  on  the  bench,  not  only  by  the  bar,  but  by  the  public ;  and 
when  he  uttered  any  opinion,  no  matter  on  what  subject,  there  was  no 
necessity  for  commanding  silence,  which  was  the  instantaneous  result 
of  an  effort  on  his  part  to  speak,  and  which  was  so  complete,  that  a 
stranger,  transported  to  the  scene,  might  have  imagined  that  his  audi- 
tors had  momentarily  been  deprived  of  speech  as  well  as  motion. 

Having  fulfilled  throughout  his  long  and  useful  life  every  duty 
both  public  and  private,  he  departed  for  another  and  a  better  world, 
much  too  soon  for  the  numerous  and  affectionate  friends  whom  he  left 
to  mourn  his  departure.  But  the  measure  of  his  glory  was  full.  Hav- 
ing nobly  discharged  every  debt  which  any  man  could  owe  his  friends, 
his  family,  and  his  country,  he  left  a  name  imperishable  in  the  annals 
of  the  land  which  gave  him  birth,  and  in  whose  service  he  had  con- 
stantly employed  the  lofty  faculties  with  which  he  was  endowed.  We 
must  believe  that  the  Supreme  Being,  having  no  longer  any  use  for 
his  ministry  on  earth,  released  the  imprisoned  spirit,  and  as  a  reward 
for  its  toils  permitted  it  to  wing  its  flight  to  those  bright  and  happy 
regions,  for  which  it  had  long  panted,  and  where  alone  it  could  expect 
to  receive  an  adequate  reward. 

Among  that  brilliant  galaxy  of  stars  Avhich  adorns  the  legal  firma- 
ment— the  Cokes,  the  Hales,  the  Mansfields,  and  the  Eldons — none  will 
shine  with-  a  more  resplendent,  or  purer,  or  more  enduring  lustre  than 
that  of  the  illustrious  JOHN  MARSHALL. 


OTJK  ILLUSIONS. 

BY    WILLIAM    H.    HOLCOMBE. 

[WILLIAM  HENRY  HOLCOMBE  was  born  in  Lynchburg,  Va.,  May  29,  1825.  In  youth 
he  pursued  a  scientific  course  at  Washington  College,  Lexington,  Va. ;  and  in  earliest 
manhood  he  took  his  M.D.  degree  from  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  His  first 
three  years  of  professional  life  were  spent,  as  the  partner  of  his  father,  in  Madison,  Ind. 
Thence  he  removed  to  Cincinnati,  0.,  where  he  married,  and  where  he  became  converted 
to  Swedenborgianism  and  to  Homeopathy.  Having  removed  South  in  1852,  he  resided 
in  Natchez,  Miss.,  for  five  years,  and  in  Waterproof,  La.,  for  seven  years.  In  1864 
he  settled  in  New  Orleans.  In  1869,  on  the  death  of  two  of  his  children,  he  wrote 
Our  Children  in  Heaven,  which  a  great  critic  has  characterized  as  "  a  work  of  genius, 
sanctified  by  sorrow."  In  1875  he  was  elected  President  of  the  American  Institute  of 
Homoeopathy,  and  in  1878  chairman  of  the  Homoeopathic  Yellow  Fever  Commission. 
In  1853  he  published  The  Scientific  Basis  of  Homeopathy  ;  in  1860,  Essays  on  the  Spirit- 
ual Philosophy  of  African  Slavery ;  in  1861,  Poems;  in  1870.  The  Sexes  Here  and 
Hereafter,  also  In  Both  Worlds,  a  romance;  in  1871,  The  Other  Life;  in  1872,  Southern 
Voices;  in  1880,  The  Lost  Truths  of  Christianity;  in  1881,  The  End  of  the  World;  in 
1889,  The  New  Life  ;  and  in  1890,  Helps  to  Spiritual  Growth.  Of  his  novel,  A  Mystery 
of  New  Orleans  (1891),  Dr.  Garth  Wilkinson,  of  London,  says  :  "Dr.  Holcombe  has 
given  us  a  masterpiece  of  fiction.  This  book  is  an  achievement  for  the  English-speaking 
peoples,  and  sooner  or  later  must  go  round  the  world."  His  latest  and  posthumous 
work,  The  Truth  about  Homoeopathy,  is  a  valuable  contribution  to  professional  liter- 
ature. Dr.  Holcombe  died  in  New  Orleans,  November  28,  1893.] 

THOR,  the  Scandinavian  hero,  once  had  three  tasks  assigned  him, 
which,  glorying  in  his  strength,  he  regarded  with  contempt.  He  was 
to  drain  a  tankard  of  water,  to  wrestle  with  an  old  woman,  and  to 
race  with  Loke,  the  runner.  He  failed  in  all  three.  He  could  not 
drain  the  tankard,  he  could  not  throw  the  old  woman,  he  could  not 
eclipse  the  racer.  "  What  illusions  are  these  ? "  indignantly  said  Thor. 
The  tankard  of  Avater  was  the  ocean.  Who  can  exhaust  it  ?  The  old 
woman  was  Time.  Who  can  contend  with  it  ?  Loke,  the  runner,  was 
Thought.  Who  can  outstrip  it  ? 

Thus  our  ancestors,  the  old  Norsemen,  taught  the  great  transcen- 
dental truth,  almost  forgotten  by  their  descendants,  that  the  evidence 
of  the  senses  is  not  to  be  trusted,  and  the  profoundest  mysteries  lie 
concealed  under  the  simplest  things. 

We  are  surrounded  by  illusions  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  We 
pass  from  one  dream  to  another,  from  one  air-castle  to  another. 

We  begin  with  the  illusions  of  the  senses,  of  which  we  can  never 


OUR  ILLUSIONS.  311 

fully  divest  ourselves  until  we  return  to  the  dust  from  which  we  were 
taken.  To  these  are  superadded  in  childhood  and  youth  the  illusions 
of  the  imagination,  which  may  change  their  forms  but  not  their 
character.  In  mature  life  we  enter  upon  the  illusions  of  the  under- 
standing, and  pass  on  to  our  graves  hugging  to  our  breasts  a  bundle 
of  opinions  and  beliefs,  not  one  of  which,  it  may  be,  can  stand '.the 
crucial  tests  of  truth.  Thus  we  live  and  die  in  an  atmosphere  of  sen- 
sory delusions,  self-deceptions,  false  opinions,  superstitions,  and  concrete 
errors,  ever  accumulating  from  age  to  age. 

The  fundamental  cause  of  our  illusions,  which  are  piled  one  upon 
another  like  a  tower  of  Babel  aspiring  toward  heaven,  is  ignorance — 
ignorance  of  God,  of  our  own  souls,  and  of  our  relations  to  our  environ- 
ment— and  hence  a  false  interpretation  of  phenomena.  We  have  lost 
the  inner  light.  We  have  turned  from  the  Creator,  and  see  only  the 
creation.  We  have  fallen  from  the  centre — which  is  God — down  into 
the  circumferences  and  surfaces,  where  nothing  can  be  seen  in  its 
true  relations,  and  where  we  burrow  like  the  mole  or  creep  like  the 
serpent. 

The  uninstructed  senses  tell  us  that  the  earth  is  a  solid,  immovable 
mass,  the  centre  of  all  things,  over  which  a  blue  sky,  with  a  panorama 
of  creeping  sun  and  stars,  is  hung  in  adornment.  The  truth  is  that 
our  globe,  perpetually  moving  and  vibrating  in  every  atom  of  its 
structure,  is  revolving  upon  its  axis  a  thousand  miles  an  hour,  whirl- 
ing along  upon  so  enormous  an  orbit  around  the  sun,  and  at  the  same 
time  swept  away  with  the  sun  and  the  planets  Avith  inconceivable 
velocity  upon  some  vaster  orbit  through  the  sidereal  spaces,  in  the 
midst  of  which  it  floats  like  a  speck  of  dust  upon  the  ocean.  Such  is 
a  type  of  the  relations  which  exist  between  our  feeble  conceptions  and 
the  realities  of  things. 

We  look  around  us,  and  we  say  that  the  world  is  full  of  sounds  and 
colors,  which  reveal  to  our  senses  the  wonderful  qualities  of  the  objects 
about  us.  It  is  all  an  illusion,  a  false  appearance.  'No  vibration  of 
the  atmosphere  becomes  a  sound  until  it  enters  the  auditory  apparatus 
of  a  living  creature.  No  vibration  of  the  luminous  ether  becomes  a 
color  until  it  strikes  upon  the  brain  of  men  or  animals.  The  world  in 
itself  is  soundless  and  colorless.  The  sounds,  the  colors,  the  touch,  the 
taste,  the  smell,  the  sensation,  the  life,  are  all  within  ourselves.  We 
know  nothing  whatever  of  the  world  without  us,  except  from  the 
changing  states  of  our  own  spirit. 

Condillac,  the  prince  of  materialists,  exclaimed :  "  Though  we 
should  soar  into  the  heavens,  though  we  should  sink  into  the  abyss, 
we  never  go  out  of  ourselves ;  it  is  always  our  own  thought  that  we 
perceive." 


312  ESS  A  YS— MIXED. 

"  The  materialist,"  says  Emerson,  "  secure  in  the  certainty  of  his 
sensations,  mocks  at  fine-spun  theories,  at  star-gazers  and  dreamers, 
and  believes  that  his  life  is  solid,  that  he  at  least  takes  nothing  for 
granted,  but  knows  where  he  stands  and  what  he  does.  Yet  how  easy 
it  is  to  shoAV  him  that  he  also  is  a  phantom  walking  and  working 
among  phantoms,  and  that  he  need  only  ask  a  question  or  two  beyond 
his  daily  questions  to  discover  that  his  solid  universe  grows  dim  and 
impalpable  to  his  sense." 

We  say  that  the  nerves  of  our  body  feel  pain.  It  is  an  illusion. 
Sensation  is  the  consciousness  of  an  impression.  Nerves  are  conduct- 
ors, but  they  know  nothing  of  the  impressions  they  conduct :  no  more 
than  the  wire  knows  of  the  telegraphic  message  sent  through  it.  Cut 
the  nerves,  and  no  pain  can  be  felt  in  the  extremities.  Then  no  pain 
ever  was  felt  in  the  foot  or  in  the  hand.  Ah !  you  say,  it  is  the  brain 
that  feels.  No;  the  nerve  centres  of  the  brain  have  no  sensation. 
They  may  be  cut  or  stuck  in  any  manner  without  the  victim  having 
the  slightest  consciousness  of  it.  Where,  then,  is  the  pain  ?  Not  in 
the  body  at  all,  but  in  the  spiritual  substance  which  pervades  and  is 
concealed  within  the  body. 

The  outcome  of  this  line  of  thought  is  the  fact  that  the  body  has 
no  life,  no  sensations,  no  properties  of  its  own.  It  is  merely  the  spirit 
of  man  emblematically  represented .  in  flesh  and  blood.  It  is  a  piano 
played  upon  by  an  invisible  performer.  It  is  a  chess-board  in  which 
the  complicated  game  of  life  is  carried  on  by  unseen  hands.  What  is 
true  of  the  body,  is  equally  true  of  nature  and  all  our  external  environ- 
ments. They  are  not  created  from  without,  but,  as  Emerson  says, 
they  are  pushed  forward  from  within  ourselves,  as  the  bark  and  leaves 
are  pushed  forward  from  the  inner  substance  of  the  tree.  The 
thoughts  of  God  are  externalized  in  the  objects,  laws,  and  phenomena 
of  the  universe. 

This  idealistic  interpretation  of  man  and  nature  is  not  novel.  It 
is  venerable  with  antiquity.  It  originated  in  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
when  man,  without  effort,  had  dominion  over  all  things,  and  without 
experiment  knew  the  qualities  of  every  object  presented  to  his  eye. 
It  is  the  golden  key  which  opens  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  Word 
of  God.  It  pervades  all  poetry  and  art  like  a  subtle  perfume.  It 
irradiates  the  path  of  philosophy,  from  the  Oriental  sages  and  Plato 
and  the  Gnostics,  down  through  Spinoza  and  Swedenborg  and 
Berkeley,  to  Hegel  and  Emerson  in  our  own  day.  It  does  not  pre- 
sent itself  as  a  new  claimant  for  the  mental  throne  of  the  world,  but 
as  the  original,  long  unacknowledged,  but  rightful  owner  of  it. 

It  has  been  recently  discovered  that  this  ancient  mine  of  thought 
is  full  of  treasures,  which  can  be  utilized  in  the  most  extraordinary 


OUR  ILLUSIONS.  313 

manner.  It  is  claimed  that  the  absolute  truths  which  can  be  drawn 
from  this  idealistic  philosophy  are  the  secret  springs  which  control  the 
secret  forces  of  the  universe.  They  can  be  deployed  for  the  preven- 
tion and  cure  of  disease,  for  the  spiritual  renovation  of  character,  for 
the  suppression  of  evil  and  the  evolution  of  good,  and  for  the  intro- 
duction of  light,  peace,  and  joy  into  the  hearts  and  homes  of  the  peo- 
ple. It  is  religion  idealized  and  vitalized.  Instead  of  being  illusory, 
it  is  the  cure  for  all  illusions.  These  enormous  pretensions  will  be 
scouted  by  the  materialist  and  skeptic,  and  long  rejected  by  the  eccle- 
siastic and  the  physician;  but  all  must  eventually  surrender  to  the 
logic  of  facts  accomplished. 

How  charming  are  the  illusions  of  the  nursery! — the  miniature 
world  in  which  our  larger  world  is  pictured  and  predicted  !  The  babe, 
ignorant  of  self,  taking  its  own  image  in  the  glass  for  another  babe ; 
a  performance  we  constantly  repeat,  for  nature  is  a  mirror  in  which 
we  see  only  ourselves  and  yet  mistake  it  for  something  else.  The 
babe,  ignorant  of  space,  reaches  out  its  little  hand  to  clutch  the  moon. 
We,  conquerors  of  space,  have  touched  the  moon  and  the  stars  and 
the  constellations  with  our  eyes,  and  with  that  vast  artificial  eye — 
the  telescope — which  we  have  constructed  to  aid  our  sight. 

Peep  into  the  nursery  and  see  yourselves,  excited  and  hurried  over 
the  idle  game  of  life.  The  little  mother  solicitous  for  her  suffering 
doll !  The  little  housekeeper  worried  over  her  tin  kitchen !  The 
noisy  little  soldier  with  his  gun  and  drum !  The  little  fireman  racing 
with  his  toy  engine  !  The  little  lover,  looking  with  dim  foreshadow- 
ings  of  sentiment  into  his  lady's  eyes!  Their  joys,  their  sorrows, 
their  disappointments,  are  as  keen  as  ours;  and  to  superior  intelli- 
gences our  greatest  troubles  may  seem  to  have  no  more  real  signifi- 
cance than  the  wail  of  a  child  over  a  lost  cake  or  a  broken  toy. 

O  youth !  happy  transition  between  childhood  and  manhood, 
enchanting  aurora  of  life!  What  soul  from  whose  hearing  "the 
horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  "  have  not  died  forever,  can  forget 
its  sweet  illusions,  its  wild  ambitions,  its  incommunicable  longings, 
its  transports  and  its  tears  ? 

"  Tears  from  the  depths  of  some  divine  despair." 

How  readily  the  little  girl  clothes  herself  with  illusion  as  a  drapery, 
and  experiences  the  whole  range  of  feminine  thought  and  sentiment, 
from  Cinderella  in  the  ashes  to  Cinderella  at  the  ball !  How  the  little 
boy  gazes  with  Kobinson  Crusoe  at  the  footprint  of  the  savage  in  the 
sand,  and  trembles  with  Christian  at  the  sight  of  the  lions  in  the  path ! 
In  the  dreams,  the  imaginations,  the  expectations  of  youth,  what  hope, 
what  faith,  what  audacity !  The  young  statesman  declaims  to  ap- 


314  ESSAYS— MIXED. 

plauding  senates  which  have  not  yet  assembled;  the  young  poet, 
Avho  has  not  yet  sung,  listens  to  his  songs  as  they  echo  round  the 
world ;  the  coming  soldier  keeps  step  to  inaudible  drums ;  and  the 
born  sailor  boy  hears  in  his  mountain  solitudes  the  music  of  the  sea. 

And  here  it  may  be  supposed  that  I  ought  to  mention  "love's 
young  dream"  as  the  most  wonderful  and  beautiful  illusion  of  all. 
But  I  cannot  do  it  the  supreme  injustice  to  call  it  by  such  a  name. 
Love  is  the  sole  reality  in  a  world  of  illusions  and  shadows.  First 
born  of  God,  it  is  itself  the  breath  of  heaven.  Nor  have  lovers,  or 
poets,  or  art,  or  music  uttered  the  whole  truth  about  woman,  the 
pearl  of  innocence,  the  rose  of  joy,  the  light,  the  life,  the  wonder  of 
the  world. 

It  is  a  common  opinion  among  men,  that  as  we  advance  in  life  we 
gradually  get  rid  of  our  illusions.  Education,  experience,  observation, 
and  reason  are  supposed  to  eliminate  errors,  to  separate  the  unreal  from 
the  real,  and  to  establish  us  at  last  in  the  absolute  truth.  It  is  all  a 
mistake.  Education  has  delivered  us  in  part  from  the  illusions  of  the 
senses.  We  learn  that  what  seems  the  course  of  the  sun  across  the 
sky  is  caused  by  the  rotation  of  the  earth.  We  learn  that  what  seems 
the  blue  dome  above  us  is  not  a  dome  at  all,  nor  is  it  blue.  But 
education  upon  wrong  lines  of  thought  only  creates,  fosters,  and  con- 
firms our  illusions.  Then  experience,  observation,  and  reason  go 
almost  for  nothing ;  for,  having  assumed  that  we  are  in  the  possession 
of  truth,  we  construe  everything  into  the  support  of  our  position. 
Nothing  is  more  common  than  to  see  a  man  rooted  and  grounded  in 
false  persuasions,  impervious  to  a  new  idea,  incapable  of  progress  or 
change  of  opinion,  live  in  the  perpetual  illusion  that  he  is  free  from  all 
prejudice,  and  a  candid  and  liberal  investigator  of  truth. 

No !  our  illusions  thicken  and  deepen  and  strengthen  as  we  grow 
older,  and  darken  the  evening  of  life  with  innumerable  shadows.  The 
illusions  of  egotism  and  self-conceit,  the  illusions  of  pride  and  family, 
the  illusions  of  wealth  and  pleasure,  the  illusions  of  ambition  and 
power,  the  illusions  of  belief  and  opinion,  are  all  strange  lights,  which 
lead  us  astray  from  the  true  paths,  and  so  confuse  our  minds  with 
their  mingled  lights  and  shadows,  that  at  last  we  know  not  where  we 
are  going. 

Illusion  is  the  result  of  ignorance;  a  wrong  interpretation  of 
phenomena,  either  natural  or  spiritual.  When  the  traveller  in  the 
desert  sees  the  wonderful  mirage  in  the  distance,  and  leaves  the  beaten 
path  in  search  of  its  green  fields  and  shining  waters,  he  is  lost  forever. 
So  when  human  beings  construe  falsely  the  problem  of  life,  and  start 
out  with  wrong  motives  and  wrong  aspirations  in  their  pursuit  of 
happiness,  they  are  soon  blinded  by  illusions  from  which  deliverance 


OUR  ILLUSIONS.  315 

is  exceedingly  difficult.  They  look  upon  the  wine  when  it  is  red  and 
showeth  its  color  in  the  cup,  but  they  cannot  see  that  at  the  last  it 
biteth  like  a  serpent  and  stingeth  like  an  adder.  They  yield  to  the 
gambling  spirit  in  the  illusion  of  vast  and  speedy  gains,  but  discern 
not  that  the  end  thereof  is  deep  dissatisfaction,  poverty,  and  disgrace. 
They  listen  to  the  voice  of  the  siren,  but  the  steps  which  lead  down  to 
hell  are  hidden  from  their  eyes.  They  rush  headlong  in  the  mad 
pursuit  of  wealth,  constantly  contemplating  with  renewed  hope  the 
.  supreme  satisfaction  which  its  possession  will  give,  until  they  suddenly 
hear  the  voice  of  God:  "Thou  fool!  this  night  shall  thy  soul  be 
required  of  thee !  " 

It  is  strange  that  our  illusions  should  seem  to  be  so  real,  objective, 
and  permanent.  The  victim  of  delirium  tremens  hides  from  the 
assassin  who  is  in  close  pursuit  of  him,  or  recoils  in  terror  from  the 
serpent  which  is  springing  upon  him.  King  Eichard,  starting  up 
from  his  vision  of  those  whom  he  had  murdered,  falls  upon  his  knees 
in  abject  horror : 

"  KING  RICHARD.     Radcliffe!  I  fear,  I  fear! 

RADCLIFFE.     Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  afraid  of  shadows! 

KING  RICHARD.     Now,  by  the  Apostle  Paul,  shadows  to-night 
Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard 
Than  could  the  substance  of  ten  thousand  soldiers." 

Just  as  unreal,  just  as  illusory,  as  these  things,  are  all  the  false 
opinions  and  beliefs,  the  self-deceptions,  superstitions,  and  concrete 
errors  of  the  human  race. 

See  the  long  caravan  of  pilgrims  moving  in  the  shadows  of  the 
evening  of  life.  What  care-worn  faces,  what  wrinkled  brows,  what 
dejected  airs,  what  weary  feet,  what  aching  hearts!  Their  little 
schemes  of  vanity,  and  conquest,  and  pleasure,  and  self-aggrandizement 
have  fallen  to  the  ground.  Life  has  been  full  of  wrecked  hopes,  and 
quenched  aspirations,  and  cruel  disappointments.  They  have  lost  or 
buried  almost  everything  that  was  dear  to  them.  If  they  had  known 
the  truth,  and  the  truth  had  made  them  free  indeed,  they  would 
greatly  rejoice ;  for  they  have  lost  nothing  at  all,  and  have  buried 
only  their  illusions. 

The  crowning  illusion  of  life  is  death.  This  object  of  terror,  which 
casts  such  a  deep  shadow  upon  our  souls,  is  itself  a  shadow.  We 
tremble  in  the  shadow  of  shadow!  One  day,  those  who  love  you 
will  stand  around  the  tenement  of  clay  you  once  occupied,  and  will 
say :  "  Our  friend  is  dead."  From  the  invisible  side  you  will  answer 
back :  "  It  is  not  so ;  I  am  not  dead.  I  have  lost  nothing.  I  have 
gained  all.  Freed  from  the  illusions  of  time  and  space,  I  live  forever." 


316  ESS  A  YS— MIXED. 

In  all  this  false  interpretation  of  phenomena,  this  commingling  of 
lights  and  shadows,  this  confusion  of  truth  and  falsity,  we  are  led  to 
ask,  Is  there  anything  real  ?  Is  there  anything  genuine,  living,  un- 
changeable, and  eternal  ?  Is  there  any  fixed  centre  from  which  we 
can  move,  with  certainty  that  the  circumferences  will  not  slip  from 
our  feet  or  vanish  into  air  ? 

Yes ;  the  centre  of  all  life  is  God.  The  fixed  truth  from  which  we 
must  reason  to  all  truths  is,  that  the  goodness  of  God,  and  the  wisdom 
of  God  which  flows  from  and  corresponds  to  it,  are  infinite,  omnipres- 
ent, and  eternal.  All  that  is  in  God,  that  flows  from  God,  and  reveals 
or  manifests  God,  is  real  and  indestructible.  All  that  denies  God,  or 
counterfeits  him,  or  contradicts  and  opposes  him,  is  unreal,  fantastic, 
and  illusory — a  mere  lie,  which  has  no  substance,  no  reality,  but  is 
only  a  statement  of  something  which  does  not  exist. 

So  far  as  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of  God  are  in  you,  to  that 
degree  are  you  good  and  wise  ;  to  that  degree  are  you  a  child  of  God, 
an  image  and  likeness  of  God,  a  joint  heir  with  Christ,  to  that  degree 
are  you  real  and  immortal,  and  subject  to  no  illusions  whatever.  The 
treasures  of  heaven  are  laid  up  within  you.  They  cannot  be  taken 
from  you.  They  do  not  rust  or  vanish.  They  are  your  own,  and  sooner 
or  later  you  will  realize  their  possession — 

"  For  everything  which  is  thine  own, 
Flying  in  air  or  pent  in  stone, 
Shall  rive  the  hills  and  swim  the  sea, 
And,  like  thy  shadow,  follow  thee." 

And  now  we  are  ready  to  contemplate  one  of  the  greatest  and 
most  disastrous  illusions  under  which  you  labor ;  one  which  has  the 
strongest  hold  upon  you,  and  from  which  you  can  hardly  by  the 
greatest  effort  rid  yourselves.  This  is  the  illusion  :  That  the  self 
which  you  know  and  feel,  that  thinking,  reasoning,  working,  strug- 
gling, worrying  personality  of  yours,  is  your  real  self  and  all  that 
there  is  of  you. 

Of  course,  you  say,  it  is  my  real  self.  What  else  can  there  be  of 
me? 

The  prodigal  son,  when  he  was  in  the  Valley  of  Humiliation,  feed- 
ing upon  the  husks  which  the  swine  did  eat,  thought  he  was  in  his 
real  selfhood.  But  the  "Word  says :  "  When  he  came  to  himself,  he 
said,  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father."  When  the  Lord  cast  the 
evil  spirits  out  of  the  poor  maniac  on  the  mountain,  he  was  found 
sitting  at  the  feet  of  Jesus,  "  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind."  The 
prodigal  passed  from  the  apparent,  external  self,  into  the  real  and 
spiritual  self.  When  the  evil  spirits  were  cast  out  of  the  maniac,  the 


OUR  ILLUSIONS.  317 

"  right  mind,"  or  true  spiritual  life,  which  had  only  been  concealed  by 
their  presence,  came  to  the  surface  and  made  itself  apparent. 

We  are  all  double.  We  have  an  external  life  of  which  we  are  now 
conscious,  and  an  internal  life,  or  true  self,  of  which  we  seldom  know 
anything  here,  but  of  which  we  will  be  conscious  hereafter.  This 
interior  life  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  within  us,  the  life  of  Christ  in 
the  soul.  It  is  that  which  is  born  of  God — the  new  man.  It  never 
sinned,  it  never  suffered  ;  it  is  immortal.  We  realize  it,  or  come  into  a 
consciousness  of  it,  by  faith  in  Christ.  Faith  is  "  the  evidence  of  things 
not  seen."  It  does  not  create  that  interior  life ;  it  simply  reveals  it  to 
us. 

No  matter  how  many  evil  things  yourself  or  others  may  say 
against  that  external  self,  which  seems  to  be  the  all  of  you.  It  is  born 
in  sin,  conceived  in  iniquity ;  it  is  sensual,  deceitful,  devilish.  Acknowl- 
edge it  all.  So  it  is.  Then  say  boldly :  It  is  not  I ;  that  which  you 
speak  of  is  the  false,  deluded,  and  illusory  part  of  me,  which  feeds  upon 
husks,  hides  in  the  tombs  on  the  mountains  of  illusion,  and  wanders 
through  the  world  amid  a  thousand  confused  and  doleful  experiences. 
I  repudiate  this  false  self.  I  lay  it  down  to  take  up  another  and 
higher  self.  When  I  lose  this  shadow  I  shall  find  the  substance. 

The  fact  is,  we  are  lost  children  born  amid  royal  splendors,  who 
have  wandered  off  from  our  Father's  palace  and  have  forgotten  it, 
and  have  not  yet  been  led  into  a  recognition  of  our  royal  rights  and 
inheritance. 

When  we  turn  from  God,  we  do  not  see  the  Creator  but  the  crea- 
tion. The  selfhood  then  projects  before  us  its  immense  shadow,  in 
which  innumerable  illusions  are  engendered.  These  illusions,  in  turn, 
beget  false  interpretations  of  God,  of  man,  of  nature,  and  of  the  whole 
problem  of  life. 

But  when  we  turn  our  faces  toward  the  Divine  sun,  the  shadow  of 
the  selfhood  with  all  its  brood  of  phantasms  falls  behind  us,  and  we 
interpret  all  things  correctly ;  for  we  see  them  in  the  light  of  God. 


AN   OFFICER'S   DUTIES   IN   TIME   OF   WAR.* 

BY  T.  G.  T.  BEAUREGARD. 

[PIERRE  GUSTAVE  TOUTANT  BEAUREGARD  was  born  in  St.  Bernard  Parish,  La.t 
May  28,  1818.  He  died  in  New  Orleans,  February  20,  1893.  His  career,  especially  as 
a  commander  of  the  Confederate  Army,  is  too  well  known  to  need  repetition.  He  is 
included  among  Louisiana's  distinguished  authors,  in  virtue  of  his  Commentary  on  the 
Campaign  and  Battle  of  Manassas,  and  his  Summary  of  the  Art  of  War  (1891).  Pro- 
fessor Alcee  Fortier  has  characterized  the  literary  style  of  these  works  as  "  mathemati- 
cally precise."] 

WHEN  an  officer  is  on  active  service  in  the  field,  everything  con- 
nected with  the  daily  life  of  his  men  should  be  an  object  of  constant 
attention  ;  no  detail  is  beneath  him.  He  must  not  think  the  arms  and 
ammunition  his  most  important  charge,  and  that  if  they  be  in  fighting 
order  he  need  not  trouble  himself  much  about  the  rest. 

The  arms  are  the  fighting  weapons,  but  the  soldier  is  the  machine 
which  wields  them  ;  and  it  is  to  him — to  clothing  his  back,  and  feed- 
ing his  belly,  and  looking  after  his  health  and  comfort — that  the  great 
attention  is  due.  The  arms  and  ammunition  must  of  course  be  always 
in  perfect  order,  but  they  are  only  required  when  in  contact  with  an 
enemy.  The  natural  condition  of  a  soldier  on  service  is  the  line  of 
march.  He  Avill  have  at  least  twenty  days  of  marching  to  one  of 
fighting ;  and  he  has  to  be  preserved  in  health  and  comfort  during 
those  twenty  days  ;  otherwise  his  musket  and  pouch  would  do  small 
service  on  the  twenty-first  day. 

An  officer  should  go  among  his  men  and  himself  look  after  their 
comfort.  No  fear  of  their  losing  respect  for  him  because  he  does  so. ' 
At  the  end  of  a  march  he  should  never  feel  at  liberty  to  attend  to  his 
own  wants  until  he  has  seen  his  men  engaged  in  cooking  their  meals. 
The  rapidity  with  which  a  regiment  has  its  fires  lighted  after  a 
march,  and  meals  cooked,  may  be  regarded  as  a  test  of  the  attention 
paid  by  the  officers  to  the  comfort  of  their  men. 

Similarly  before  a  march,  an  officer  should  take  care  that  none  of 
his  men  leave  their  encampment  or  bivouac  without  as  good  a  meal  as 
circumstances  permit. 

As  regards  equipment  for  the  field,  an  officer  must  have  as  few 

*[  Summary  of  the  Art  of  War:  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  publishers,  New  York  and 
London.] 


P.   G.   T.    BEAUREGAR 


AN  OFFICER'S   DUTIES  IN  TIME   OF   WAR.  319 

wants  as  possible  ;  and  he  should  carefully  study  the  art  of  putting  up 
the  articles  it  is  necessary  he  should  possess  in  the  smallest  possible 
compass.  The  line  of  march  must  be  considered  as  the  natural  condi- 
tion of  a  soldier,  and  everything  regulated  with  that  view. 

An  officer  charged  with  the  arrangement  of  any  military  move- 
ment or  operation  should  on  no  account  trust  to  the  intelligence  of 
subordinates  who  are  to  execute  it.  He  should  anticipate  and  provide 
against  every  misconception  or  stupidity  it  is  possible  to  foresee,  and 
give  all  the  minute  directions  he  would  think  necessary  if  he  knew  the 
officer  charged  with  the  execution  of  the  operation  to  be  the  most 
stupid  of  mankind. 

No  amount  of  disapprobation  of  his  general's  plans  can  justify  an 
officer  in  canvassing  those  plans  with  others,  and  openly  finding  fault 
with  them,  A  great  many  young  gentlemen  (and  old  gentlemen,  too, 
for  that  matter)  set  up  for  generals,  and  habitually  ridicule  the  dis- 
positions of  their  superiors.  Such  a  practice  is  insubordinate  and  mis- 
chievous in  the  highest  degree ;  the  soldiers  acquire  the  habit  from 
those  whose  duty  it  is  to  set  an  example  ;  they  lose  that  confidence  in 
their  general  which  is  one  of  the  principal  elements  of  success  in  mili- 
tary operations,  and  infinite  mischief  results. 


MAGICIANS   AND    FEATHER   DUSTERS. 

BY  JULIA  K.  (WETHERILL)  BAKER.  • 

[JULIA  KEIM  (WETHERILL)  BAKER  was  born  in  Woodville,  Miss.,  July  18,  1858.  She 
received  her  education  in  Philadelphia,  Penn.  Her  husband,  Mr.  Marion  A.  Baker,  is 
the  literary  editor  of  the  New  Orleans  Times  Democrat ;  and  for  the  past  six  years  she 
has  been  employed  as  literary  critic  and  editorial  writer  on  the  staff  of  that  journal. 
She  is  a  contributor  to  Lippincotfs  Magazine,  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  the  Century,  the 
Critic,  et  als.] 

To  the  eyes  of  a  certain  traveller  in  a  tropical  land,  the  long  lines 
of  palm-trees  looked  like  row  after  row  of  feather  dusters.  To 
another  they  seemed  weird  magicians,  hoary  and  solemn,  grown  old, 
immeasurably  old,  in  all  mysterious  knowledge,  and  conning  their 
strange  secrets  over  as  the  sun  shone  upon  them  and  the  wind 
passed  by. 

In  the  one  simile  we  mark  something  smart  and  not  inapt,  the 
glibness  of  superficial  observation,  and  the  imperturbability  which  is 
never  afraid  to  fasten  its  little  price-mark  upon  anything.  Such  an 
observer  goes  upon  his  journeys  of  discovery  in  an  express  train,  and 
gathers  material  for  his  notes  through  the  car-window.  If  any 
shallowness  or  inaccuracy  of  comment — any  omission  of  details  that 
help  to  explain  the  whole — is  the  result,  we  must  blame  the  rate 
of  speed.  It  is  a  fault  common  enough  in  our  hastening  times.  As 
regards  the  other  comparison,  it  is  an  expression  of  that  imagination 
which  has  a  vision  of  its  own.  The  inward  source  of  living  light 
vivifies  the  weed,  the  stone,  the  wayside  pool ;  for  the  aspect  of  the 
world  depends  less  upon  the  things  seen  than  upon  the  one  who  sees 
them. 

Doubtless  the  ancient  maker  of  fable  and  legendary  lore  was  a 
songless  poet  whose  voice  the  rude  age  silenced — who  could  not  bend 
resignedly  to  the  thought  that  there  were  no  miracles  or  marvels,  and 
therefore  set  to  work  to  create  some.  It  was  a  rebellion,  a  pathetic 
revolt,  against  living  in  such  a  prosaic  world.  If  he  was  never 
entirely  successful  in  persuading  himself  of  the  reliability  of  his  own 
inventions,  he  derived  a  sort  of  pleasure  from  noting  the  credulity  of 
his  fellows.  It  was  something,  at  least,  to  make  others  believe.  And, 
after  all,  his  was  not  so  inexcusable  a  falsification  as  the  rigid  moralist 
may  suppose.  "  Who  can  foretell  to-morrow  ? "  He  lived  in  hope's 
land  of  promise. 


MAGICIANS  AND  FEATHER  DUSTERS.  321 

His  eyes  never  wearied  of  watching  for  the  haunting  naiad  of  the 
source.  The  dragon-fly  shimmering  with  gauzy  wings  upon  the 
brink  might  be  the  forerunner  of  the  fairy-folk.  When  the  tree  tossed 
its  boughs  and  whispered  to  the  wandering  breeze,  he  started  about  in 
the  eager  hope  that  he  might  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  hidden  dryad. 
The  glitter  of  green  and  gold  in  the  fence-corner  must  be  a  fay  snared 
in  the  spider's  mesh  and  giving  battle  with  his  tiny  blade.  A  sudden 
pattering  over  the  dead  leaves  of  the  woodland  meant  the  scurrying 
feet  of  trolls,  hastening  away  in  terrified  remembrance  of  the  days 
when  Thor  was  wont  to  throw  his  hammer  at  them.  Yonder  undu- 
lating line  across  the  pool  was  not  the  passing  of  a  water-snake,  but  a 
kelpie.  The  sound  of  piping  from  the  yellowed  summer  grass  might 
be  the  shrilling  of  elfin  trumpets.  That  sudden  gleam  of  scarlet 
among  the  weeds  was  not  the  flaunting  of  some  poor  wild-flower, 
but  the  red  cap  of  a  fairy  messenger  on  his  way  to  court. 

And  as  this  slave  and  master  of  fancy  continued  to  multiply 
marvels  about  him,  all  the  more  devoutly  did  the  simple  folk  believe. 
Mentally  incapable  themselves  of  a  like  creative  energy  of  imagina- 
tion, it  could  not  occur  to  them  to  suspect  another  of  possessing  such 
a,  gift.  Thus  his  supremacy  was  established,  and  they  came  to  him 
for  intelligence  of  the  unseen  world,  whose  mysteries  they  strained 
their  dull  eyes  in  vain  to  see.  He  it  was  who  feigned  sleep  in  the 
magic  ring,  and  ran  home  breathless  at  cock-crow,  to  tell  the  gaping 
neighbors  of  the  brave  things  he  had  beheld.  Hiding  near  the  cross- 
roads, upon  the  stroke  of  twelve,  he  spied  the  fairy  procession  wend- 
ing along  the  highway,  headed  by  the  queen  herself,  mounted  on  a 
snow-white  palfrey  that  moved  to  the  music  of  golden  chimings.  He 
heard  the  wood-sorrel  ringing  its  silver  bells  to  summon  the  sprites  to 
their  nightly  revels,  but  not  the  shriek  of  the  mandrake  plucked  up  by 
the  roots — for  that  meant  madness. 

The  wandering  fires  of  the  will-o'-the-wisps  lighted  up  an  unknown 
path  he  was  fain  to  follow — how  vainly,  he  scarce  whispered  even  to 
his  own  heart.  He  parleyed  with  Eobin  Goodfellow,  and  watched  the 
flight  of  witches  through  the  murk  of  the  dead  hours.  When  some 
villager  disappeared  in  the  depths  of  the  great  gloomy  forest  and  was 
no  more  seen,  the  man  of  the  second  sight  spoke  mystic  things,  as  the 
light  burned  blue,  and  his  listeners  huddled  around  him,  shuddering 
between  delight  and  terror,  of  mortals  lured  away  to  the  land  of 
Faery,  changed  there  to  birds  or  beasts,  or  wrapped  in  a  magic  for- 
getfulness  of  home  and  friends.  They  brought  their  dreams  to  him, 
and  he  unriddled  them,  being  wise  in  signs,  omens,  and  portents.  He 
heard  the  death-watch  tick,  and  knew  to  a  certainty  which  way  the 
flickering  of  the  corpse-candle  pointed. 
21 


322  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

Treading  fearlessly  the  demesne  of  the  graveyard,  his  only  regret 
was  that  the  ghostly  occupants  did  not  squeak  and  gibber  at  his  will. 
He  warned  his  followers  that  wise  men  will  not  stir  abroad  on  Mid- 
summer Night,  when  "  the  world  goes  a-madding,"  and  told  them  of 
weird  rites  upon  which  mortal  eyes  may  not  gaze  unblasted.  When 
one  fell  sick  and  wasted  beyond  the  help  of  the  healing  juices  ex- 
pressed from  herb  or  flower,  he  whispered  of  the  casting  of  spells  by 
those  in  league  with  evil  spirits.  If  his  inventions  proved  fatal,  now 
and  then,  to  some  poor  mumbling  goody,  we  must  believe  that  he 
was  never  among  the  active  persecutors  of  wizardly  folk.  If  he 
started  the  hue  and  cry,  it  was  in  all  innocence  ;  for  he  loved  mysteries 
too  well  to  wish  to  abolish  even  the  least  of  them.  Sometimes,  it  is  to 
be  supposed,  he  fell  a  martyr  to  his  magic  creed  that  he  scarce  believed 
himself.  The  superstitious  feelings  he  had  evoked  turned  traitor  to 
him:  his  own  hand,  it  may  be  said,  lighted  the  fagots  about  his 
funeral  pile,  and  he  perished  in  smoke  and  flame,  for  the  sake  of  those 
pathetic  imaginings  with  which  he  had  tried  to  enliven  the  dull  colors 
of  every-day  life. 

The  German  story  of  the  youth  who  travelled  to  learn  what 
shivering  means,  might  be  taken  as  an  allegorical  allusion  to  a  certain 
human  anxiety  to  be  thrilled. 

The  man  of  second-sight  is  still  among  us,  and  to-day,  as  ever,  he 
finds  it  hard  to  reconcile  himself  to  commonplace  conditions.  But 
modern  thought  has  somewhat  clipped  his  wings ;  his  flights  never 
range  so  far  or  wildly  as  of  old.  Though  he  has  not  relinquished  the 
secret  hope  that  each  day  may  bring  forth  a  miracle,  he  has  grown 
wise  enough  not  to  confess  it.  Taught  wariness  by  the  mockery  of 
practical  people,  if  one  finds  him  hunting  for  elves  in  the  grass  he 
avers  that  he  is  pursuing  the  study  of  botany.  To  him  a  telescope  is 
only  an  excuse  for  reading  his  fortune  in  the  stars.  He  learns  the 
jargon  of  the  market-place,  and  speaks  it  as  glibly  as  the  best.  But 
there  is  always  something  which  betrays  him.  He  has  a  trick  of 
forgetting  his  surroundings  until  some  ruder  jostling  than  usual 
startles  him  awake,  and  he  stands  all  adaze,  with  the  tattered  fila- 
ments of  the  dream  still  hanging  about  him. 

Out  of  the  ruins  of  old  beliefs  he  has  striven  to  build  himself  a 
cloudy  city  of  refuge,  whither  he  may  flee  when  the  outside  toil  and 
strain  become  too  harsh.  The  child  part  of  his  nature  has  not  died. 
Vain  is  the  effort  to  console  him  with  the  "fairy-tales  of  science." 
What  he  wants  is  the  unexplainable,  the  unprovable,  the  legends  that 
taught  him  of  a  kingdom  where  love  and  youth  and  beauty  are 
immortal.  Is  it  lost  forever,  that  wonderland  to  which  he  sometimes 
gropes  his  way  back  through  dreams  ?  He  seems  to  hear  the  myriad 


MAGICIANS  AND  FEATHER  DUSTERS.  323 

murmurs  of  an  invisible  host  attendant  upon  his  steps.  The  sounds 
of  the  pulsing  darkness,  the  sigh  of  reeds  by  the  stream,  the  cry  of 
tides  that  come  and  go,  the  viewless  wind— that  bodiless  voice  of  rage 
and  wild  laughter  and  infinite  grieving— all  speak  to  him  as  of  yore, 
but  the  clew  to  their  signification  has  been  snapped  off  short.  What 

means  that  shudder  before  the  mystery  of  infinite  beauty  ? and  what 

the  sudden  leap  in  the  heart,  as  of  some  captive  thing  straining  at  the 
leash  ? 

Though  the  dreamer's  philosophy  bears  about  the  same  relation  to 
the  sober  business  of  existence  as  astrology  to  astronomy,  and  orni- 
thomancy  to  ornithology,  and  he  is  not  an  active  helper  forward  of 
progress,  he  has  his  uses.  However  light  his  weight  may  be,  it  is 
needed  to  preserve  the  balance  of  power.  His  influence  prevents  the 
world  from  becoming  hopelessly  ugly  and  brutal  and  matter-of-fact. 
His  year  is  full  of  days  that  may  not  be  forgotten,  marked  in  memory 
by  the  dawn-bright  blush  of  April  peach  boughs,  or  the  long  lights 
wavering  across  fields  of  ripened  wheat.  The  pageant  of  the  seasons 
is  his:  autumn's  fire-dropping  torch,  the  ghostly  silence  of  winter, 
summer  revels  that  die  in  a  dazzle  of  rose  and  gold,  or  peaceful  even- 
ings of  the  springtime,  when  twilight  steals  pensively  over  the  dew- 
wet  sward,  and  one  great,  bright  star  points  the  hour  midway  between 
the  zenith  and  the  horizon.  • 

If  we  take  him  from  his  green  fields  to  the  clamorous  town,  he  is 
no  whit  poorer.  In  the  foundry  fires  he  hears  the  chant  of  singing 
flame.  He  notes  how  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun  transmutes  the  vol- 
umes of  smoke  that  roll  from  the  furnace  chimneys  into  a  hundred 
metallic  tints  and  lustres.  He  sees  something  more  than  bricks  and 
mortar.  And  when  the  night  is  full  of  echoing  footsteps,  and  the 
vast  rumor  of  life  comes  to  him  as  to  one  who  stands  upon  the  edge 
of  a  storm,  he  feels  that  the  secret  of  humanity  has  touched  him  in 
passing,  and  something  inarticulate  strives  within  him  for  speech. 

Because  he  cannot  endure  that  anything  should  be  barren  and 
desolate,  he  is  always  covering  the  arid  places  of  the  world  with  the 
blossoms  of  his  fancy,  and  heaping  flowers  high  upon  the  graves  of 
buried  hopes.  He  can  find  green  grass  and  fresh  water  pools  even  in 
the  infinite  thirst  of  the  desert,  where  the  sand-column  soars  above  the 
burning  plain.  If  we  dispossess  him  of  the  earth,  he  smiles  and  paints 
the  empty  sky  with  the  mirage  of  his  dreams.  Let  those  who  will 
preach  their  gloomy  creed,  that  "  heaven  is  a  gas,  God  a  force,  the 
second  world  a  grave ;  "  death  to  him  means  not  dust  and  dull  extinc- 
tion and  the  conqueror  worm,  but  the  flight  of  an  upward-winging 
soul.  Like  the  bird  of  night,  he  can  "  sing  darkling."  He  needs  no 
day-spring,  for  an  inward  impulse  bids  the  song  break  forth.  Not  of 


324  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

his  own  will,  but  through  some  hidden  instinct,  rises  the  strain  potent 
to  "  witch  the  heart  out  of  things  evil."  It  is  a  wandering  voice  of 
poesy,  giving  us  back  the  lost  tears  and  laughter  of  youth,  the  thrill 
of  dawn,  and  the  immortal  pang  of  love. 

Is  it  but  an  idle  dream — a  vision  vain  as  bright  ?  What  is  life,  at 
best  ?  Man,  surrounded  by  terrific  forces  which  may  destroy  him  at 
any  moment,  plays  ignorantly  among  them  like  a  child,  and  is  some- 
times pleased  at  fancying  himself  their  master.  To-morrow  may 
disabuse  him  of  the  flattering  idea ;  but  still  the  valorous  pygmy  con- 
tinues to  rear  his  puny  defences — an  ant-hill  against  an  avalanche,  a 
cobweb  against  a  whirlwind.  Can  all  his  intelligence  check  the  flood 
or  stay  the  tempest  ?  Can  his  cunning  prevail  against  the  warfare  of 
blind  and  enraged  Titans  ?  When  the  hour  of  destruction  strikes,  his 
utmost  wisdom  will  carry  him  little  farther  than  the  folly  of  the  estray 
from  dreamland,  who  calls  those  mighty  powers  giants  and  sorcerers 
and  magicians. 

Lippincott's  Magazine. 


QUEEN  ANNE  FKONTS  AND  MARY  ANNE  BACKS. 

BY    MARTHA    R.    FIELD. 

[MARTHA  REINHARD  (SMALLWOOD)  FIELD— well  known  by  her  pen  name  of  "  Catherine 
Cole  "—was  born  in  Lexington,  Mo.,  May  25,  1855.  Her  marriage  to  Charles  W.  Field 
was  solemnized  in  San  Francisco,  and  three  years  afterwards— upon  the  death  of  her 
husband— she  removed  to  New  Orleans  and  secured  a  position  on  the  Times.  In  1881 
she  became  associated  with  the  Picayune,  to  which  she  still  contributes.  Her  "Corre- 
spondence Club  "  in  that  journal  has  enlisted  her  best  energies.  She  writes  ably,  brightly, 
and  sympathetically  upon  most  subjects  that  are  of  interest  to  her  sex,] 

ONCE  upon  a  time  it  was  my  fortune  to  live  across  the  way  from  a 
house  that  had  had  a  Queen  Anne  front  built  onto  its  plain  Mary 
Anne  back.  At  that  time  I  was  not  very  familiar  with  legitimate 
Queen  Anne  architecture,  and  I  believed  the  new  front  on  my  neigh- 
bors' house  to  be  pure  Queen  Anne — because  they  told  me  so,  and  they 
had  been  so  informed  by  their  architect.  I  am  the  more  inclined  to 
believe  that  that  front  was  Queen  Anne  because,  nowadays,  any  style, 
whether  imitated  in  bedsteads,  sideboards,  or  houses,  that  cannot  be 
otherwise  accounted  for,  is  known  by  the  merest  tyro — to  say  nothing 
of  toadies— to  be  Queen  Anne. 

For  years  and  years  my  neighbors  had  lived,  wholesomely,  happily, 
and  comfortably,  in  one  of  those  big,  bleak,  angular,  and  inartistic 
residences,  with  a  gallery  up  stairs  and  down,  a  hall  ditto,  a  wing  in 
which  were  located  the  servants'  rooms  and  cooking  apartments. 
There  was  not  a  room  that  was  not  made  sacred  from  its  sweet  associa- 
tions with  the  births,  deaths,  and  marriages  that  are  the  peaceful  prog- 
ress and  fate  of  every  family.  All  the  rooms  had  their  gentle  ghosts, 
or  held,  like  perfume  in  an  incense  bowl,  the  fragrant  memories  of 
laughter  and  of  tears.  But  the  girls  grew  up  into  young  ladyhood, 
the  lads  were  in  demand  for  germans  and  opera  parties,  the  sturdy 
father  prospered  in  his  business,  and  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  the 
old  house  was  moved  back  and  aBsthetic  carpenters  soldered  on  to  it  a 
gorgeous,  gabled,  shingled  anomaly  that  for  purposes  of  identification 
was  referred  to  as  Queen  Anne.  The  new  front  was  mighty  fine.  It 
held  a  library,  a  suite  of  drawing-rooms,  a  reception-room,  a  music- 
room,  a  dining-room,  a  breakfast-room,  and  a  feAv  accessories  in  the 
way  of  cloak-rooms  and  lavatories ;  so  much,  in  fact,  that  it  has  always 
been  a  wonder  to  me  why  the  architect  did  not  also  transmogrify  and 


326  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

fresco  the  old  original  homestead,  instead  of  tacking  it  on  as  a  con- 
stant, plain,  weatherboarded  reminder  of  days  that  are  dead. 

Nothing  in  New  Orleans  was  finer  than  that  Queen  Anne  front, 
and  often  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  we  used  to  promenade  down  the 
street  just  to  admire  its  artistic  fagade  and  study  in  our  ignorance  its 
intricate  curiosities  of  architecture.  But  as  we  walked  home  again  we 
were  invariably  brought  cheek  by  jowl,  as  it  were,  with  the  plain,  old, 
dear  and  familiar  two-story  rear  building ;  and  somehow,  as  the  result 
of  a  joke,  we  fell  into  the  way  of  calling  it  the  house  with  the  Queen 
Anne  front  and  the  Mary  Anne  back. 

But  it  took  me  a  long  while  to  get  used  to  the  incongruity.  I  did 
not  find  it  easy  to  adjust  the  Queen  Anne  with  the  Mary  Anne.  As  I 
passed  from  the  gabled,  aBsthetic  front  to  the  plain,  rain-beaten, 
weather-worn  rear  building,  now  joined  on  to  Queen  Anne  by  a  sort 
of  mediaeval  lancet-windowed  link,  I  could  not  but  be  reminded  of  a 
corpse  dressed  only  in  front,  and  who,  on  resurrection  day,  will  be 
obliged  to  persistently  back  against  the  pearly  walls  of  the  new  Jeru- 
salem in  order  to  hide  its  deficiencies  of  costume,  for  which,  poor 
thing,  it  is  not  at  all  responsible. 

Or  else,  when  I  took  the  street-car  and  observed  that  gorgeous 
Queen  Anne  front  bulging  so  importantly  on  the  grand  thoroughfare, 
when  I  heard  people  exclaiming  over  it  and  admiring  it,  I  could  not 
help  for  the  life  of  me  a  sensation  of  discomfort  akin  to  that  experi- 
enced by  the  gentleman  who  complained  that  he  could  not  live  unless 
the  toes  of  his  recently  amputated  foot  were  properly  straightened  out. 
At  last  the  dismembered  limb  was  unearthed,  it  was  found  out  the  toe 
really  needed  straightening,  the  member  was  reburied,  and  the  ex- 
owner  had  no  more  trouble.  And  just  so  it  seemed  to  me.  I  never 
could  rest  easy  in  the  enjoyment  of  my  neighbors'  grandeur  until  that 
Mary  Anne  back  was  renovated  to  a  proper  accordance  with  the  Queen 
Anne  front. 

I  think  I  wasted  a  great  deal  of  time  over  this  architectural  incon- 
gruity before  it  occurred  to  me  that  a  more  serious  fault,  and  far  more 
irremediable,  is  to  be  found  in  people  who  are  permanently  afflicted 
with  a  sort  of  mental  and  moral  disproportion,  that  can  be  explained 
by  saying  they  are  closely  alike  to  my  neighbors'  house  with  the  Queen 
Anne  front  and  the  Mary  Anne  back. 

Who  has  not  been  amused  to  see  a  swell  carriage  at  the  front  door 
of  a  swell  residence,  while  an  untidy,  broken  swill-barrel,  a  disgrace 
to  any  neighborhood,  stood  at  the  back  ? 

Who  has  not  seen  the  mistress  in  a  lace  tea-gown  lolling  on  the 
porch  of  the  Queen  Anne  front,  while  the  slatternly,  uncared-for  poor 
relation  worked  in  the  ashes  under  the  porch  of  the  Mary  Anne  back  ? 


QUEEN  ANNE  FRONTS  AND  MARY  ANNE  BACKS.  32? 

Who  has  not  seen  the  high  art  young  ladies  in  tennis  gowns  play- 
ing on  the  lawn  before  the  Queen  Anne  front,  while  their  ragged 
lingerie  flopped  on  the  clothes-line  behind  the  dreary  portals  of  the 
Mary  Anne  back  ? 

Often  we  have  known  the  hired  society  hot-house  flowers  of  the 
florist  to  come  in  at  the  Queen  Anne  front  door,  while  the  unpaid 
maker  of  ball-dresses,  or  the  hungry  beggar  for  a  slice  of  bread,  went 
unrewarded  from  the  gate  in  the  shadow  of  the  Mary  Anne  rear. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  chicken  salad  and  champagne  punch 
reception  in  the  Queen  Anne  drawing-room  ?  but  who  hears  of  the 
conjugal  quarrel  in  the  Mary  Anne  bed-room,  or  of  the  corn-beef  and 
yellow  grits  repasts  that  follow  the  reception  in  the  Mary  Anne 
breakfast-room  ? 

I  have  heard  of  a  Queen  Anne  front  and  Mary  Anne  back  sort  of 
a  lady  whose  only  tea-gown  is  reserved  for  reception  days,  who  only 
uses  her  nice  table-linen  when  company  comes,  who  even  covers  up 
her  toilet  ornaments  on  all  save  her  reception  days. 

But  I  have  also  heard  of  the  Queen  Anne  front  Christian,  who  does 
all  his  praying  in  church ;  the  Queen  Anne  front  philanthropist,  who 
only  gives  when  the  gift  is  certain  to  be  published ;  of  the  Queen  Anne 
clergyman,  who  only  has  time  to  be  socially  intimate  with  rich  parish- 
ioners ;  and  of  the  Queen  Anne  socialist,  who  publishes  a  fine  equality 
and  practises  a  close  exclusiveness,  and  who  snobbishly  will  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  people  who  are  not  rich  and  fashionable. 

Now  and  again  there  is  put  forth  by  some  sharp  publisher  a  book 
of  the  biographies  of  persons  of  the  Queen  Anne  front  and  Mary  Anne 
back  turn  of  mind.  Each  individual  writes  his  own  sketch,  anony- 
mously, of  course,  or  if  he  does  not  he  gets  some  friend  or  relative  to 
do  the  slavering  for  him.  The  result  is  a  series  of  remarkable  super- 
latives of  adulation.  Not  long  since  a  lady  who  writes  exhibited  to 
me  a  gushing  biographical  sketch  of  herself,  cut  from  a  magazine  and 
pasted  in  her  scrap-book,  but  which,  unfortunately,  I  knew  she  had 
written  herself. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  that  jovial,  beneficent  employer  who  talks 
of  his  employees  as  his  "people,"  who  loves  them  so  dearly  in  public, 
but  has  it  in  for  them  for  every  small  fault  they  commit,  and  is  cer- 
tain, in  the  end,  in  a  sly,  subtle  way,  to  get  even  with  them ;  who  sets 
a  spy  over  them,  and  never  forgives  them  if  surprised  into  any  mani- 
festation of  individuality  or  any  expression  of  independence  ? 

I  have  known  a  preacher  to  talk  beautifully  of  the  great,  loving 
heart  that  should  make  a  man  Christ-like,  and  I  have  known  the  same 
preacher  to  shut  the  door  on  a  foolish,  friendless  girl  gone  wrong.  I 
have  known  a  philanthropist  to  spend  six  weeks  getting  other  people 


328  ESSA  YS— MIXED. 

to  give  money  to  a  charity  concern,  yet  send  a  little  child  asking  bread 
empty-handed  from  his  gate.  I  have  seen  a  missionary  to  the  South 
Sea  islanders  draw  her  petticoats  away  from  the  clean,  guinea-blue 
gown  of  an  old  mammy,  hobbling  in  one  of  our  street-cars.  I  have 
seen  a  rich  toady,  whose  carriage  was  at  the  daily  disposal  of  her  rich 
minister's  wife,  refuse  five  cents  to  an  old  woman  who  wanted  it  to  go 
to  the  poorhouse. 

On  to  the  plain,  modest,  everyday-looking  Maty  Anne  structures 
of  daily  life,  how  many  people  are  there  who  build  Queen  Anne  fronts 
of  stucco  and  Swiss  shingles  in  which  to  house  sham  fashion,  sham 
elegance,  sham  tastes,  sham  philanthropies,  sham  virtues,  and  sham 
enterprises. 

Of  these  the  foremost  are  the  people  who  scrimp,  save,  and  con- 
trive to  get  away  for  the  summer,  not  into  the  woods,  nor  on  the 
sands  where  the  salt  waters  are,  but  away,  anywhere,  to  some  fashion- 
able hotel,  full  of  the  two  types  of  society,  the  truly  fashionable  and 
the  rich,  and  the  people  who  wish  to  be  thought  truly  fashionable 
and  rich.  The  old  grinding  life  at  home,  lived  patiently  for  the  sake 
of  this  annual  outing,  is  forgotten ;  they  are  now  in  occupancy  of  the 
Queen  Anne  front.  All  is  dark  and  lights  are  out  in  that  Mary  Anne 
back  where  the  ball-dresses  were  dyed,  the  bonnets  made  over,  the 
servants  stood  off,  and  the  bills  disputed. 

Mrs.  Tomshoddy,  who  goes  away  for  the  summer,  refers  to  her 
maid,  her  housegirl,  her  dining-room  servant,  and  her  cook,  but  for- 
gets to  explain  that  all  these  are  comprised  in  the  one  sad  little  slat- 
tern who  sleeps  in  a  closet  and  really  does  the  work  of  five. 

Mrs.  Hiflyer  intimately  discusses  her  friends,  the  Flats,  who  share 
expenses  with  her  at  home,  and  no  one  guesses  it  is  her  way  of  saying 
she  takes  boarders. 

Now,  the  only  harm  in  the  Queen  Anne  front  and  the  Mary  Anne 
back  is  that  people  will  laugh  at  the  apparent  incongruity,  and  that 
the  owner  of  this  combination  is  likely  to  grow  ashamed  of  the  plainer 
side.  My  friends,  whose  house  was  the  inspiration  of  this,  never,  I 
am  happy  to  say,  became  disloyal  to  the  old  roof.  The  mother  in  the 
family  used  to  say :  "  The  old  house — big,  plain,  and  easy-going — is 
what  we  were ;  the  new  part — fine,  frescoed,  and  all  style  and  arti- 
ficial manners — is  what  we  are." 

In  fact,  I  have  known  whole  cities  to  live  with  a  view  to  keeping 
the  best  foot  forward.  The  front  streets  were  cleaned ;  visitors  were 
allowed  to  see  only  the  show  places.  A  great  bluster  was  made  of 
enterprise,  hospitality,  and  energy.  But  when  visitors  came  they  had 
to  pay  double  price;  immigrants  were  systematically  crowded  out; 
old  grudges  were  visited  on  innocent  victims ;  at  the  first  hint  of  a* 


QUEEN  ANNE  FRONTS  AND  MARY  ANNE  BACKS.  329 

hotel,  a  railroad,  a  factory,  property  was  run  up  to  absurdly  fictitious 
values;  in  fact,  the  cosey,  comfortable-appearing  Queen  Anne  front 
was  all  for  show,  and  an  ugly,  human  conflict  still  festered  in  the 
angular  halls  of  the  old,  half -ruined  Mary  Anne  back,  in  which  the 
town's  morals  and  the  town's  real  character  were  contained. 

In  modern  American  life  everything  tends  to  the  facade.  It  is 
raised  high  over  the  roof — a  pretence  of  factory  carving  and  carpen- 
ter's gluing  that  a  good  strong  wind  can  easily  blow  down.  Under 
its  shadow  may  be  sickliness,  poverty,  grimy,  dingy  rooms.  The 
white  marble  carriage-step  does  not  always  announce  a  clean  kitchen. 
The  clean-swept  sward  on  the  front  street  does  not  always  mean  that 
the  alley-way  is  clear  of  broken  bottles,  or  that  the  neighbors  in  the 
side  streets  have  no  cause  to  complain  of  every-day  untidiness.  A 
directoire  gown  has  been  known  to  be  draped  over  a  ragged  or  a 
soiled  petticoat.  Let  us,  for  truth's  sake,  be  true  to  ourselves,  and  when 
we  build  Queen  Anne  fronts  remove  that  suspicion  of  imitation  fine- 
ness that  is  inevitably  suggested  by  the  Mary  Anne  back. 


PART  IV. 
FICTION. 


THE   STOEY   OF  IZANACHI  AND  IZANANI. 

BY    FRANK    MCGLOIN. 

[  FRANK  McGLOiN  was  born  in  Gort,  Ireland,  February  22,  1846.  In  his  infancy 
he  was  brought  by  his  mother  to  New  Orleans.  In  his  youth  he  studied  at  the  public 
schools  of  New  Orleans  and  at  St.  Mary's  College,  Perry  County,  Mo.  During  the  latter 
part  of  the  Civil  War,  he  served  in  the  Confederate  Army.  In  1866  he  was  admitted 
to  the  Louisiana  bar.  In  1880  he  was  elected  one  of  the  judges  of  the  Court  of  Appeals 
of  New  Orleans,  and  in  1884  was  reflected  to  the  same  position.  During  the  seven  years 
of  its  existence,  he  was  editor  of  the  Holy  Family,  a  weekly  Catholic  journal  of  New 
Orleans.  The  best-known  results  of  his  labors  in  the  field  of  light  literature  are  the 
Conquest  of  Europe,  a  poem  (1874),  and  the  Story  of  Norodom,  King  of  Cambodia:  a 
Romance  of  ike  East  (1882).] 

THE  god  Izanachi  looked  down  upon  the  chaos  beneath  him  and 
was  grieved.  Then  he  said  unto  himself  : 

"  My  eyes  are  weary,  and  can  no  longer  endure  this  chaos.  There 
shall  be  a  world  below,  as  perfect  and  well  defined  as  the  chaos  is 
shapeless  and  confused,  and  as  beautiful  as  the  wastes  below  are  hid- 
eous." 

Into  his  counsels  then  he  brought  Izanani,  the  divine  companion, 
and  they  spoke. 

And  lo !  at  the  command,  a  world  appeared,  floating  in  the  gulf. 
And  this  was  perfect  in  form,  as  Izanachi  had  said,  and  subjected  to 
order  and  law.  So  beautiful  it  lay,  that  ages  elapsed  before  the  heav- 
enly ones  withdrew  their  gaze,  even  for  a  single  moment. 

Then  a  longing  came  upon  Izanachi. 

"  Let  us  contemplate  our  work  more  closely,"  he  said,  "  and  dwell 
for  a  time  among  the  beauties  our  word  hath  summoned  into  being." 

And  again  the  divine  companion  was  gracious,  and  the  expanse  of 
earth  was  scanned  to  select  a  spot  most  fitting  for  an  abode.  Their 
eyes  swept  plain  and  mountain,  and  no  land  appeared  so  verdant  as 
Japan.  The  waters  were  surveyed,  and  none  seemed  so  placid  as  those 
of  the  Inner  sea. 

And  of  all  that  formed  what  has  since  become  the  Ocean  Empire, 
no  spot  was  so  attractive  as  the  island  of  Awaji,  clad  in  rich  garments 
of  leaves  and  flowers,  and  rising  from  the  sea,  as  though  timidly,  like 
a  virgin  from  her  bath. 

"  There  let  us  dwell,"  said  Izanachi,  "  upon  yon  isle,  that  seemeth 


334  FICTION. 

like  a  basket  of  verdure  and  bright  flowers,  floating  upon  a  violet 
sea." 

Once  again  the  divine  companion  assented,  and  together  the  heav- 
enly spouses  descended,  sinking  slowly  through  space,  until  at  last  they 
stood  upon  the  velvety  and  blossom-strewn  bosom  of  Awaji. 

They  gazed  long  upon  its  loveliness,  speaking  never  a  word.  Then 
again  was  the  yearning  in  their  hearts,  and  they  turned  with  wistful 
eyes  toward  each  other. 

"  Lo,"  they  said,  "  our  celestial  abode  is  not  in  glory  like  to  this. 
Here  let  us  dwell  forevermore." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Izanachi  and  Izanani  made  their  home 
upon  Awaji,  and  they  dwelt  together,  during  a  period,  in  perfect  bliss. 
Children  were  born  and  grew  tall  about  them,  and  each,  as  it  came, 
was  a  new  tie  binding  the  celestial  spouses  more  firmly  to  their  earthly 
abode.  The  heart  of  Izanani  was  replete  with  the  joys  of  maternity ; 
and  Izanachi  took  pride  in  the  grace  and  beauty  of  his  daughters,  and 
the  vigor  and  symmetry  of  his  sons. 

It  happened,  however,  in  time,  that  a  babe  was  stricken  with  dan- 
gerous illness.  Izanani  observed  its  loss  of  strength,  but  comprehended 
not.  She  was,  however,  mightily  moved  and  fell  to  weeping,  not 
knowing  why  she  wept.  Then  she  sought  her  heavenly  consort  and 
found  him  not  until  she  entered  into  the  groves ;  and  he  too  was 
troubled  and  in  grief. 

The  child,  with  time,  grew  strong  again,  but  the  parents  were  not 
comforted.  The  joy  that  had  long  been  theirs  was  dead ;  and .  they 
spoke  not  even  to  each  other,  so  heavily  lay  this  uncomprehended 
woe  upon  their  hearts.  Nevertheless,  though  silent,  they  were  never 
parted ;  but,  sitting  side  by  side,  they  pondered  deep  thoughts,  as  when 
universes  are  conceived.  Despite  all,  however,  the  mystery  of  their 
sorrow  remained  inscrutable  as  ever. 

At  length  Izanani  broke  the  silence. 

"  Tell  me,  O  Izanachi,"  she  said,  "  why  we  are  thus  beset  with  a 
woe  which  seemeth  without  cause !  There  has  fallen  no  evil  upon  us, 
and  yet  we  suffer !  Why  should  we,  who  are  Gods  of  Heaven,  in 
this  be  without  power  or  comprehension  ? " 

But  Izanachi,  gazing  upon  her  sadly,  gave  forth  no  word,  and  again 
the  silence  was  long  between  them.  A  time  went  by,  and  the  celes- 
tial ones  remained  yet  hand  in  hand,  until  at  length,  turning  toward 
the  divine  companion,  Izanachi  spoke : 

"  Thought  alone,"  he  said,  "  will  not  fathom  the  depths  of  this  sor- 
row. Let  us  rise,  and  wandering  apart  through  the  meadows  and  the 
groves,  perchance  our  eyes  may  see  or  our  ears  hear  what  shall  make 
plain  the  secret  which  so  resists  us." 


THE  STORY  OF  IZ AN  AC  HI  AND  IZANANI.  335 

Then  the  celestial  ones  arose,  and  unclasping  hands,  departed,  each 
upon  a  different  way.  And  they  searched  the  island  of  Awaji  with 
diligence,  from  shore  to  shore,  and  up  to  the  very  summits  of  its  high- 
est places. 

As  each  succeeding  night  would  fall,  the  heavenly  pair  would 
come  together,  and  their  eyes  would  meet,  full  of  yearning  inquiry ; 
but  during  many,  many  days  neither  spake  a  word,  for  their  sorrow 
was  deep  and  dumb. 

At  length,  however,  the  silence  was  broken,  for  as  they  came 
together  one  evening  in  the  gathering  gloom,  in  the  hand  of  Izanachi 
lay  a  butterfly  that  was  dead. 

"  Behold,"  he  said,  "  how  motionless !  I  found  it  thus,  with  wings 
extended,  lying  among  the  odorous  shrubs  that  grow  upon  the  hill- 
side. As  I  drew  near  it  rose  not  to  fly  away,  but  suffered  me  to  place 
a  hand  upon  it.  And  thus  I  have  borne  it  hither,  watching  as  I  came, 
and  yet  not  a  flutter  has  been  upon  these  golden  wings." 

Izanani  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  moth,  and  her  heart  was  seized  with 
pity,  but  why  she  knew  not. 

And  upon  the  succeeding  night  it  was  Izanani  who  came  with  out- 
stretched palm,  and  upon  the  palm  there  lay  a  tiny  fish  with  silvered 
sides. 

"  This,"  she  said,  "  I  saw  drifting  upon  the  bosom  of  the  streamlet 
that  skirts  the  camphor  groves.  It  floated  so  as  to  almost  touch  the 
bank,  and  as  I  stooped  it  made  no  effort  to  escape.  Hither  have  I 
borne  it,  watching  closely,  and,  like  thy  butterfly,  it  made  no  move- 
ment." 

Another  night  was  falling,  and  again  there  was  something  in  the- 
hand  of  Izanani.  Now  it  was  a  bird  of  modest  plumage. 

"  Again  was  I  under  the  camphor  trees,  when  suddenly  this  bird 
fell  from  the  branches  struggling  at  my  feet.  A  feAv  great  gasps  it 
gave,  and  then  others  that  were  more  feeble,  and  at  last  it  lay  still  as- 
the  silvered  fish  and  the  golden  butterfly." 

Another  day  was  passing,  and  Izanachi  was  in  the  groves.  At  the 
foot  of  a  great  tree  he  beheld  a  squirrel,  which  seemed  in  deadly  fear, 
but  yet  incapable  of  flight.  And  as  the  god  approached  it  gazed  upon 
him,  as  though  with  appealing  eyes.  In  the  heart  of  Izanachi  was  a 
deep  compassion,  for  there  came  to  his  mind  the  suffering  babe,  whose 
weakness  and  pain  had  been  the  cause  of  the  uncomprehended  woe ; 
and  he  raised  the  animal  tenderly  from  the  earth  and  placed  it  in  his 
bosom,  and  sought  at  once  for  Izanani. 

"  Lo  !  "  the  divine  companion  exclaimed,  "  it  was  even  thus  with 
the  babe." 

And  then  she  placed  the  squirrel  in  a  bed  of  softest  moss  and  cared 


336  FICTION. 

for  it  during  many  days,  as  though  it  had  been  a  child.  The  creature 
wasted  for  a  period,  but  with  time  began  to  improve,  regaining  at  last 
its  strength. 

"  Lo !  "  Izanani  again  exclaimed,  "  it  was  even  thus  with  our 
babe." 

The  animal  had  been  won  by  kindness,  so  that  when  its  vigor  was 
restored  it  would  not  depart,  but  remained,  becoming  a  playmate  to 
the  children.  And  the  heavenly  ones,  still  in  darkness,  resumed  their 
wandering  search. 

It  was  but  a  short  while  before  the  squirrel  again  was  seized  with 
illness,  wasting  as  before.  Again  the  celestial  ones  cared  for  it  ten- 
derly, as  though  it  had  been  a  child.  Their  solicitude,  however,  was 
now  profitless,  for  after  some  days  the  creature  died.  And  as  it  lay 
motionless,  the  heavenly  ones  remembered  the  butterfly,  and  the  fish, 
and  the  bird. 

And  together  they  hastened  to  where  the  butterfly  had  been  laid 
away.  It  was  but  dust.  And  of  the  fish  there  remained  but  the 
bones  and  the  silvered  scales ;  and  of  the  bird,  naught  but  the  sober 
plumage.  And  the  light  dawned  upon  them  at  last,  and  sorrow  grew 
heavier  upon  their  hearts. 

"  This  is  annihilation,"  they  exclaimed,  "  and  all  things  that  take 
existence  upon  this  beautiful  earth  must  perish.  Alas  for  the  chil- 
dren that  have  been  born  to  us  !  " 

A  nd,  for  certain  assurance,  they  laid  away  the  body  of  the  squirrel, 
as  had  been  done  with  the  butterfly,  and  the  fish,  and  the  bird  ;  and 
in  time,  like  them,  it,  too,  wasted  and  was  gone. 

Now  was  the  misery  of  the  celestial  couple  become  grievous  be- 
yond even  the  divine  endurance.  Every  smile  that  now  illumined  the 
young  and  happy  faces  of  their  children  was  a  dagger  to  pierce  the 
parents'  hearts  ;  for  were  these  not  the  doomed  who  were  smiling  thus 
sweetly  upon  them  ? 

When  Izanani  pressed  her  youngest  to  her  bosom,  imagination 
would  picture  those  soft  eyes  closed,  and  the  sweet  and  rosy  face 
pallid  in  death.  Then  would  she  draw  the  infant  closer  to  herself  and 
moan: 

"  Alas,  my  beautiful !  whom  I  must  come  some  day  to  behold  like 
the  butterfly  and  the  fish,  the  bird  and  the  squirrel.  Oh,  that  we 
could  either  clothe  thee  with  our  immortality  or  else  share  with  thee 
in  thy  mortality  !  " 

And  when,  for  an  instant,  the  heart  of  Izanachi  swelled  with 
fatherly  pride  as  he  looked  upon  his  robust  and  handsome  sons,  or 
upon  his  beautiful  daughters,  he  would  turn  quickly  away,  and  sigh 
profoundly. 


THE  STORY  OF  IZANACHI  AND  IZANANI.  337 

"  Alas  !  "  he  would  murmur,  "  it  is  only  for  a  time." 

Thus,  for  a  period,  the  celestial  ones  were  sorrowful,  until  at  last, 
Izanani,  grieving  most  for  the  misery  of  her  heavenly  consort,  was 
filled  with  a  yearning  to  comfort  him,  and  then  it  was  she  thus  spoke 
to  Izanachi : 

"  Let  us  no  more  beget  these  children  of  earth,"  she  said,  "  who 
are  born  but  to  perish,  and  whose  comings  are  but  the  precursors  of 
bitter  sorrows." 

And  so  they  begat  no  more  children  upon  the  earth ;  but,  with 
those  that  had  been  born  to  them,  they  remained  until  even  the 
youngest  of  them  had  grown  to  the  fulness  of  strength  and  stature. 

Then,  thinking  still  the  most  of  Izanachi's  woe,  again  Izanani 
spoke. 

"  Whether  soon  or  late,"  she  said,  "  some  day  these  stately  sons 
and  these  beautiful  daughters  must  begin  one  by  one  to  waste  and 
perish  from  us.  Then  shall  there  be  from  each  a  bitter  parting.  Let 
us,  therefore,  withdraw  from  them  now,  and  bear  for  once  all  of 
sorrow  Avhich  the  future  has  in  store,  and  returning  to  our  heavenly 
mansion,  there  shall  we  bring  forth  an  offspring  that  is  not  of  earth, 
and  which  shall  share  with  us  our  immortality." 

"  But  shall  we  not,"  Izanachi  made  answer,  "  witness  from  above 
the  passing  away  of  this  our  earthly  progeny,  and  shall  not  our 
hearts  be  left  behind  to  suffer?" 

"  True,"  responded  the  divine  companion,  "  but  shall  not  our 
heaven-born  children  recall  our  hearts  from  earth,  and  shall  not  they 
bring  with  them  a  joy  that  will  temper  sorrow  ? " 

Then  Izanachi  saw  the  wisdom  of  these  words ;  and  the  celestial 
ones  gathered  about  them  all  of  the  children,  sons  and  daughters, 
that  had  been  born  to  them  upon  earth.  And  when  these  heard  the 
resolution  of  their  divine  parents,  their  hearts  were  broken  with  grief ; 
yet  not  one  questioned  the  justice  of  the  determination.  During  years 
they  wept,  and  even  to  this  day,  the  issue  of  these  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Izanachi  and  Izanani,  who  have  •  multiplied  over  the 
earth,  are  prone  to  tears,  and  have  sorrowful  hearts. 

And  sitting  in  power  above,  the  divine  ones  have  not  forgotten 
their  earthly  progeny,  although  surrounded  by  another  that  is  celestial 
and  imperishable.  The  frailer  offspring  of  the  earlier  time  have  yet 
their  love,  and  they  it  is  who  send  them  the  abundant  harvest,  and 
plenteousness  of  fish  in  the  waters,  and  of  beasts  upon  the  land. 

And  often  the  divine  ones  look  regretfully  upon  earth  and  feel  a 
longing  for  their  first-born  children,  and  the  showers  that  fall  from 
the  heavens  are  but  the  tears  they  shed. 


ESTHER'S  CHOICE.* 

BY    LAFCADIO    HEAKN. 

[LAFCADIO  HEARN  was  born  at  Leucadia,  Santa  Maura,  Ionian  Islands,  June  27, 
1850.  He  was  educated  in  Great  Britain  and  in  France.  In  1877  he  went  to  New 
Orleans  as  correspondent  of  the  Cincinnati  Commercial.  Liking  the  climate  of  New 
Orleans,  he  remained  there,  and  in  a  short  time  became  editorially  connected  with  the 
Times-Democrat.  His  ability  as  a  genre  writer  and  translator  was  at  once  recognized, 
and,  in  Sunday  issues  of  the  Times-Democrat,  his  English  versions  of  French  master- 
pieces were  a  feature  for  a  long  while.  These  were  subsequently  published  in  book-form. 
Their  success  led  to  an  engagement  with  Harper  Bros.,  which  resulted  in  A  Mid- 
Summer's  Trip  to  the  West  Indies.  Among  his  works  are  One  of  Cleopatra's  Nights— & 
translation  from  Theophile  Gautier  (1882) ;  Stray  Leaves  from  Strange  Literature  (1885) ; 
Gumbo  Zhebes  ;  Little  Dictionary  of  Creole  Proverbs  (1885) ;  Chita;  a  Memory  of  Last 
Island  (1890).  His  style  is  Oriental  in  its  richness,  and  his  descriptions  of  Nature  are 
among  the  most  beautiful  in  our  language.] 

A  story  of  Rabbi  Simon  ben  Yochai,  which  is  related  in  the  holy  Midrash  Shir- 
Hasirim  of  the  holy  Midrashim.  .  .  .  Hear,  0  Israel,  the  Lord  our  God  is  ONE  !  .  .  . 

IN  those  days  there  lived  in  Sidon,  the  mighty  city,  a  certain  holy 
Israelite  possessing  much  wealth,  and  having  the  esteem  of  all  who 
knew  him,  even  among  the  Gentiles.  In  all  Sidon  there  was  no  man 
who  had  so  beautiful  a  wife ;  for  the  comeliness  of  her  seemed  like  that 
of  Sarah,  whose  loveliness  illumined  all  the  land  of  Egypt. 

Yet  for  this  rich  one  there  was  no  happiness :  the  cry  of  the  nurs- 
ling had  never  been  heard  in  his  home,  the  sound  of  a  child's  voice 
had  never  made  sunshine  within  his  heart.  And  he  heard  voices  of 
reproach  betimes,  saying :  "  Do  not  the  Rabbis  teach  that  if  a  man 
have  lived  ten  years  with  his  wife  and  have  no  issue,  then  he  should 
divorce  her,  giving  her  the  marriage  portion  prescribed  by  law ;  for 
he  may  not  have  been  found  worthy  to  have  his  race  perpetuated  by 
her  ? "  .  .  .  But  there  were  others  who  spake  reproach  of  the  wife, 
believing  that  her  beauty  had  made  her  proud,  and  that  her  reproach 
was  but  the  punishment  of  vainglory. 

And  at  last,  one  morning,  Rabbi  Simon  ben  Yochai  was  aware 
of  two  visitors  within  the  ante-chamber  of  his  dwelling,  the  richest 
merchant  of  Sidon  and  his  wife,  greeting  the  holy  man  with  Salem 
aleikoum  !  The  Rabbi  looked  not  upon  the  woman's  face,  for  to  gaze 
even  upon  the  heel  of  a  woman  is  forbidden  to  holy  men ;  yet  he  felt 
the  sweetness  of  her  presence  pervading  all  the  house  like  the  incense 

*  [Stray  Leaves  from  Strange  Literature.     Copyright,  1884,  by  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.] 


ESTHER'S  CHOICE.  339 

of  the  flowers  woven  by  the  hands  of  the  Angel  of  Prayer.  And  the 
Rabbi  knew  that  she  was  weeping. 

Then  the  husband  arose  and  spake :  "  Lo !  it  is  now  more  than  a 
time  of  ten  years  since  I  was  wedded  to  Esther,  I  being  then  twenty 
years  of  age,  and  desirous  to  obey  the  teaching  that  he  who  remaineth 
unmarried  after  twenty  transgresseth  daily  against  God.  Esther,  thou 
knowest,  O  Eabbi,  was  the  sweetest  maiden  in  Sidon ;  and  to  me  she 
hath  ever  been  a  most  loving  and  sweet  wife,  so  that  I  could  find  no 
fault  with  her ;  neither  is  there  any  guile  in  her  heart. 

"  I  have  since  then  become  a  rich  Israelite ;  the  men  of  Tyre  know 
me,  and  the  merchants  of  Carthage 'swear  by  my  name.  I  have  many 
ships,  bearing  me  ivory  and  gold  of  Ophir  and  jewels  of  great  worth 
from  the  East ;  I  have  vases  of  onyx  and  cups  of  emeralds  curiously 
wrought,  and  chariots  and  horses — even  so  that  no  prince  hath  more 
than  I.  And  this  I  owe  to  the  blessing  of  the  Holy  One— blessed  be 
He ! — and  to  Esther,  my  wife,  also,  who  is  a  wise  and  valiant  woman, 
and  cunning  in  advising. 

"  Yet,  O  Rabbi,  gladly  would  I  have  given  all  my  riches  that  I 
might  obtain  one  son !  that  I  might  be  known  as  a  father  in  Israel. 
The  Holy  One — blessed  be  He ! — hath  not  vouchsafed  me  this  thing ; 
so  that  I  have  thought  me  found  unworthy  to  have  children  by  so 
fair  and  good  a  woman.  I  pray  thee,  therefore,  that  thou  wilt  give 
legal  enactment  to  a  bill  of  separation ;  for  I  have  resolved  to  give 
Esther  a  bill  of  divorcement,  and  a  goodly  marriage  portion  also,  that 
the  reproach  may  so  depart  from  us  in  the  sight  of  Israel." 


*  * 


And  Rabbi  Simon  ben  Yochai  stroked  thoughtfully  the  dim  silver 
of  his  beard.  A  silence  as  of  the  Shechinah  fell  upon  the  three. 
Faintly,  from  afar,  came  floating  to  their  ears  the  sea-like  murmuring 
of  Sidon's  commerce.  .  .  .  Then  spake  the  Rabbi ;  and  Esther,  look- 
ing at  him,  thought  that  his  eyes  smiled,  although  this  holy  man 
was  never  seen  to  smile  with  his  lips.  Yet  it  may  be  that  his  eyes 
smiled,  seeing  into  their  hearts :  "  My  son,  it  would  be  a  scandal  in 
Israel  to  do  as  thou  dost  purpose,  hastily  and  without  becoming  an- 
nouncement ;  for  men  might  imagine  that  Esther  had  not  been  a  good 
wife,  or  thou  a  too  exacting  husband  !  It  is  not  lawful  to  give  cause 
for  scorn.  Therefore,  go  to  thy  home,  make  ready  a  goodly  feast,  and 
invite  thither  all  thy  friends  and  the  friends  of  thy  wife,  and  those 
who  were  present  at  thy  wedding,  and  speak  to  them  as  a  good  man 
to  good  men,  and  let  them  understand  wherefore  thou  dost  this  thing, 
and  that  in  Esther  there  is  no  fault.  Then  return  to  me  on  the 
morrow,  and  I  will  grant  thee  the  bill." 


340  FICTION. 

So  a  great  feast  was  given,  and  many  guests  came ;  among  them, 
all  who  had  attended  the  wedding  of  Esther,  save,  indeed,  such  as 
Azrael  had  led  away  by  the  hand.  There  was  much  good  wine ;  the 
meats  smoked  upon  platters  of  gold,  and  cups  of  onyx  were  placed  at 
the  elbow  of  each  guest.  And  the  husband  spake  lovingly  to  his  wife 
in  the  presence  of  all,  saying  :  "  Esther,  we  have  lived  together  lovingly 
many  years;  and  if  we  must  now  separate,  thou  knowest  it  is  not 
because  I  do  not  love  thee,  but  only  because  it  hath  not  pleased  the 
Most  Holy  to  bless  us  with  children.  And  in  token  that  I  love  thee 
and  wish  thee  all  good,  know  that  I  desire  thee  to  take  away  from  my 
house  whatever  thou  desirest,  whether  it  be  gold  or  jewels  beyond 
price." 

#  * 

So  the  wine  went  round,  and  the  night  passed  in  mirth  and  song, 
until  the  heads  of  the  guests  grew  strangely  heavy,  and  there  came  a 
buzzing  in  their  ears  as  of  innumerable  bees,  and  their  beards  ceased  to 
wag  with  laughter,  and  a  deep  sleep  fell  upon  them. 

Then  Esther  summoned  her  handmaids,  and  said  to  them :  "  Behold 
my  husband  sleeps  heavily !  I  go  to  the  house  of  my  father ;  bear  him 
thither  also  as  he  sleepeth." 

*  * 

And  awaking  in  the  morning  the  husband  found  himself  in  a  strange 
chamber  and  in  a  strange  house.  But  the  sweetness  of  a  woman's 
presence,  and  the  ivory  fingers  that  caressed  his  beard,  and  the  soft- 
ness of  the  knees  that  pillowed  his  head,  and  the  glory  of  the  dark 
eyes  that  looked  into  his  own  awakening — these  were  not  strange ;  for 
he  knew  that  his  head  was  resting  in  the  lap  of  Esther.  And  bewil- 
dered with  the  grief-born  dreams  of  the  night,  he  cried  out,  "  Woman, 
what  hast  thou  done  ? " 

Then,  sweeter  than  the  voice  of  doves  among  the  fig-trees,  came 
the  voice  of  Esther :  "  Didst  thou  not  bid  me,  husband,  that  I  should 
choose  and  take  away  from  thy  house  whatsoever  I  most  desired  ? 
And  I  have  chosen  thee,  and  have  brought  thee  hither  to  my  father's 
home,  .  .  .  loving  thee  more  than  all  else  in  the  world.  Wilt  thou 
drive  me  from  thee  now  ? "  And  he  could  not  see  her  face  for  tears 
of  love ;  yet  he  heard  her  voice  speaking  on — speaking  the  golden 
words  of  Ruth,  which  are  so  old  yet  so  young  to  the  hearts  of  all  that 
love :  "  Whithersoever  thou  shalt  go,  I  will  also  go  ;  and  whithersoever 
thou  shalt  dwell,  I  also  will  dwell.  And  the  Angel  of  Death  only  may 
part  us ;  for  thou  art  all  in  all  to  me."  .  .  . 

And  in  the  golden  sunlight  at  the  doorway  suddenly  stood,  like  a 
statue  of  Babylonian  silver,  the  grand  gray  figure  of  Rabbi  Simon 
ben  Yochai,  lifting  his  hands  in  benediction. 


ESTHER'S  CHOICE.  341 

"  Schmah  Israel ! — the  Lord  our  God,  who  is  One,  bless  ye  with 
everlasting  benediction !  May  your  hearts  be  welded  by  love,  as  gold 
with  gold  by  the  cunning  of  goldsmiths !  May  the  Lord,  who  coupleth 
and  setteth  the  single  in  families,  watch  over  ye !  The  Lord  make 
this  valiant  woman  even  as  Rachel  and  as  Lia,  who  built  up  the  house 
of  Israel !  And  ye  shall  behold  your  children  and  your  children's 
children  in  the  House  of  the  Lord ! " 

Even  so  the  Lord  blessed  them ;  and  Esther  became  as  the  fruitful 
vine,  and  they  saw  their  children's  children  in  Israel.  Forasmuch  as 
it  is  written :  "  He  will  regard  the  prayer  of  the  destitute." 


THE   MYSTERIOUS   GROTTO. 

BY    ALBERT    DELPIT. 

[ALBERT  DELPIT,  poet,  playwright,  and  romancist,  was  born  in  New  Orleans, 
January  30,  1849.  He  was  sent  by  his  father  to  France  to  be  educated  at  schools  in 
Bordeaux  and  Paris.  He  afterwards  returned  to  his  native  city,  remaining  there  only 
a  few  months  to  settle  his  personal  affairs,  finally  returning  to  Paris  for  his  life-work. 
His  success  before  literary  Paris  was  almost  instantaneous.  For  so  young  a  man,  it  was 
remarkable  ;  for  a  foreigner,  it  was  without  precedent.  In  1870  he  won  the  prize 
offered  at  the  Concours  Ballande;  by  his  jfiloge  de  Lamartine  ;  in  1872  he  won  the 
Montyon  prize,  by  a  book  of  poems  entitled  L 'Invasion ;  in  1873  his  poem  Le  Repen- 
tir  was  crowned.  His  literary  fecundity,  always  of  a  high  order,  showed  untiring  indus- 
try. From  1873,  while  competing  for  the  honors  of  coronation  in  another  field,  he 
wrote  for  the  stage.  His  acted  plays,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  were  Robert  Pradel, 
drama  (1873)  ;  Jean  nu  pied,  vaudeville-in-verse  (1875) ;  Le  Message  de  Scapin,  a  com- 
edy-in-verse  (1876) :  Les  Chevaliers  de  la  Patrie  (1876)  ;  Le  Fils  de  Coralie  (1880)  ; 
and  Maucroix,  a  comedy  (1883).  All  of  these  plays  were  successes  ;  but  his  greatest 
triumphs  were  secured  in  the  field  of  romance.  His  novels  include  Les  Compagnons  du 
Roi  (1873)  ;  Le  Vengeresse  (1874)  ;  Le  Mystere  de  Bas-Meunier  (1876)  ;  Les  Fils  de  Joie 
and  Le  Dernier  Gentilhomme  (1877)  ;  La  Famille  Cavalie,  2  vols.  (1878) ;  Le  Manage 
d'Odette  (1880)  ;  Le  Pere  de  Martial,  La  Marquise  (1882)  ;  Les  Amours  Cruelles  (1884)  ; 
Solange  de  Croix — Saint  Luc  (1885) ;  Mademoiselle  de  Bressier,  Theresine,  and  Disparu 
(1888).  He  died  in  Paris,  January  4,  1893.] ' 

THIS  is  the  way  I  happened  to  be  told  the  story  : 

I  was  sitting  by  the  seashore,  beyond  where  the  lighthouse  stands. 
A  storm-wind  was  blowing.  The  strong  sea-breezes,  made  tepid  by 
the  sun,  came  to  me  impregnated  with  sharp  saline  odors.  Before  me 
the  ocean  unrolled  its  waves  upon  the  fine  sand,  like  a  green  serpent 
prolonging  its  shining  coils  in  the  sun.  Behind  me  was  the  cliff,  with 
its  gray  fissures,  whence  jutted  out  here  and  there  the  trunks  of  sickly 
trees,  brambly  growths,  and  meagre  furze-plants.  Sloping  inward, 
almost  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  yawned  a  mysterious  cavern,  a  spacious 
grotto,  dark  and  cool. 

I  was  seized  with  that  unaccountable  emotion  with  which  Nature 
inspires  those  alone  with  her,  when  a  hand  slapped  my  shoulder,  and 
a  laughing  voice  exclaimed  : 

"  How  do  you  find  yourself  this  morning  ? " 

It  was  the  old  college-friend  I  had  unexpectedly  met  the  evening 
before — Gabriel  F.,  a  naval  lieutenant. 

"  You  must  have  found  your  way  here  by  instinct,"  he  continued. 
"  Perhaps  you  never  suspected  that  a  tragedy  once  occurred  in  this 
very  place  where  we  now  are  ? " 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  GROTTO.  343 

"  A  tragedy — here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  that  very  grotto.  It  has  become  famous.  The  country 
folk  call  it  '  The  Love-Chamber.'  I  knew  of  the  romance  at  the  very 
time  when  its  characters  performed  their  parts.  Light  a  cigarette, 
and  let  me  tell  it  you." 

"  I  listen." 


At  the  time  I  am  telling  you  about  there  was  a  very  pretty  girl  at 
Biarritz,  named  Pascaline — a  Basque  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  tall 
and  slight,  with  that  peculiar  grace  so  characteristic  of  those  lithe 
mountain  women.  Her  black  hair  gleamed  under  the  yellow  silk 
kerchief  which  she  always  wore  fastened  about  her  head  in  the  most 
coquettish  style  imaginable.  Her  ruddy  lips,  slightly  sensuous,  showed 
at  every  smile  rows  of  delicate  white  teeth.  Pascaline  was  a  great 
dressmaker,  and  supported  her  father,  a  great  big  man,  half  paralyzed, 
who  lived  in  perpetual  revery,  and  rarely  spoke  except  to  reply  with 
some  peculiarly  vague  Spanish  proverb  to  any  question  put  to  him. 
Pascaline  adored  the  old  man,  and  took  care  of  him  like  a  child.  So 
folks  used  always  to  say,  "  Pascaline  will  certainly  do  well  on  account 
of  the  way  she  takes  care  of  her  father."  Anyhow,  she  had  a  chance 
either  way — to  do  well  or  badly — for  she  had  two  admirers.  One  was 
Moise  Dunez,  rich,  old,  and  ugly,  who  offered  her — a  fine  social 
position.  The  other  was  Maxime  Sarrabeyrous,  poor,  young,  and 
handsome,  who  offered  her  his  heart.  Maxime  was  said  to  be  a  pro- 
fessional guide  in  the  Pyrenees.  He  was  really  a  smuggler  ;  and,  as 
was  only  right,  Pascaline  loved  Maxime — for  love  always  calls  for 
love. 


Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  for  several  months.  Moise  Dunez 
would  often  stop  at  the  store  and  scratch  his  nose,  and  gravely 
observe  : 

"  I  can  give  you  a  fine  social  position,  Pascaline — a  fine  social 
position." 

And  she  would  always  reply  : 

"  You  are  very  kind  and  good,  M.  Moise,  but  I  love  Maxime." 
And  old  Moise  would  go  off,  grumbling  to  himself : 
"  She'll  change  her  mind  after  awhile  ;  she'll  change  her  mind." 
But  things  at  last  came  to  such  a  point  that  some  decision  had  to 
be  made.     The  two  young  lovers  often  took  long  walks  along  the 
cliff,  and  people  gossiped  about  them  a  great  deal.     Unfortunately 
they  were  very  poor.     A  dressmaker  cannot  save  very  much,  espe- 
cially if  she  has  a  father  to  support,  and  smugglers  have  their  dull 
seasons.     But  it  is  a  very  fine  profession,  for  all  that.     Poor  as  they 


344  FICTION. 

were,  however,  they  loved  each  other  so  much  that  they  went  to  old 
Father  Pascal  one  morning,  hand  in  hand,  and  said :  "  We  love  each 
other,  and  we  want  to  get  married." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  a  little  and  slowly  responded  : 

"  Very  well,  very  well.  Semos  de  los  poseos."  (Let  us  be  of  the 
few.) 

The  lovers  knelt  down  before  him,  and  he  blessed  them.  The 
betrothal  was  accomplished.  Pascaline  accompanied  the  youth  to  the 
usual  scene  of  their  promenade,  and  that  evening  they  remained  out 
on  the  cliffs  very,  very  late.  As  the  young  Basque  girl  was  returning 
home  full  of  happiness,  with  the  joy  of  love  swelling  in  her  heart,  she 
met  Moise  Dunez,  who  observed  very  gravely,  scratching  his  nose  as 
usual : 

"  I  offer  you  a  fine  social  position,  Pascaline — a  fine  social  position." 

She  answered : 

"  You  are  very  good  and  kind,  M.  Moise ;  but  Maxime  Sarrabey- 
rous  and  I  have  arranged  everything  for  the  best  this  evening." 

And  old  Moise  went  off,  muttering  as  he  always  did  : 

"  She'll  change  her  mind  after  awhile  ;  she'll  change  her  mind." 


A  few  days  later  Maxime  was  offered  a  splendid  chance  to  make  a 
snug  little  sum.  A  whole  cargo  of  goods  was  to  be  smuggled  into 
Guipuzcoa.  The  young  contrabandista  was  full  of  confidence ;  but  the 
weather  was  bad.  All  day  and  all  night  a  mighty  wind  was  blowing 
from  the  sea ;  and  the  sailors  muttered  in  fear,  "  It  is  Our  Lady  of 
Guadalupe  passing  by  !  "  Our  Lady  of  Guadalupe,  the  pale  Madonna 
with  the  green  eyes,  who,  when  she  passeth  by,  taketh  with  her  in  her 
ghostly  flight  all  who  are  belated  upon  the  vast  gray  sea. 


"  I  will  return  in  eight  days,"  said  Maxime  Sarrabeyrous,  as  he 
kissed  his  sweetheart  on  the  mouth. 

But  the  eight  days  passed,  and  then  a  month— two  months — three 
months — went  by  without  any  news  of  the  handsome  contrabandista. 
Pascaline  cried  from  morning  until  night.  As  soon  as  her  work  was 
done  she  would  hurry  to  the  cliff,  to  remain  there  for  long  hours  at  a 
time,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the  Spanish  coast.  Ah !  had  she  only  been 
free,  how  swiftly  would  she  not  have  departed  in  search  of  her  be- 
trothed, beyond  the  mountains  towering  between  her  and  love  !  But 
she  could  not  go ;  she  must  support  •  the  aged  father.  One  night  a 
cruel  rumor  came  that  Maxime  had  been  killed  by  the  custom-house 
officers — the  gabelous.  And,  in  fact,  a  whole  year  passed  without 
further  news  of  him. 

Misfortunes  never  come  singly.     One  night  the  little  store  took 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  GROTTO.  345 

fire  and  burned  down.  No  one  knew  how  the  thing  happened.  Pas- 
caline  and  her  father  were  ruined.  Moise  Dunez,  their  neighbor,  had 
escaped  with  his  usual  good  luck.  His  house  was  not  even  scorched. 
But  he  did  not  dare  to  approach  the  pretty  Basque  any  more,  knowing 
she  would  say  to  him :  "  You  are  very  kind,  M.  Moise,  but  I  shall  wait 
for  Maxime  Sarrabeyrous.  He  will  come  back,  I  am  sure.  But  if  he 
should  not  come  back,  I  shall  be  faithful  to  him  as  though  I  were  his 
widow.  And  I  am  a  good  girl,  resolved  to  make  my  own  living." 
Yes,  she  was  a  good,  brave  girl,  poor  Pascaline ;  especially  brave  and 
good,  considering  how  unhappy  her  situation.  After  her  little  store 
was  burned  she  could  not  work  for  herself  any  more,  but  had  to  work 
for  others — much  harder  than  before  and  for  much  less  money.  Now 
the  old  man  had  to  remain  all  alone  the  whole  day,  and  he  was  visibly 
declining.  Two  years  passed,  and  still  no  news  of  Maxime  Sarrabey- 
rous. Finally  the  misery  of  the  father  and  daughter  became  so  great 
that  M.  Dunez  was  seized  with  pity.  Besides,  he  was  more  in  love 
than  ever,  excited  by  the  very  disdain  of  the  beautiful  girl,  so  fresh 
and  young.  He  took  courage  and  approached  her  once  more . 

"  Pascaline,  I  do  not  now  propose  to  you  merely  because  I  can  offer 
you  a  fine  social  position.  But  you  are  certainly  killing  yourself  with 
work ;  and  if  anything  should  happen  to  you,  your  father  would  cer- 
tainly die  of  hunger.  Maxime  is  dead,  Pascaline.  You  ought,  I  think, 
to  marry  me  and  save  your  father." 

She  never  answered  a  word,  but  while  she  cried  silently  she  alloAved 
the  old  man  to  take  her  hand.  So  Moise  went  to  Father  Pascal  and 
told  him  all.  The  old  man  shook  his  head  and  responded  slowly : 

"  Good !  good !  No  hay  pajoros  en  los  nidos  de  otono ! "  (There 
are  no  birds  in  the  nests  of  autumn.) 

But  they  did  not  kneel  before  the  old  man,  and  the  old  man  did 
not  bless  them. 

Three  days  before  the  wedding  day,  just  at  the  moment  of  the 
autumn  equinox,  the  pretty  Basque  was  walking  along  the  light- 
house path,  near  the  grotto,  when  a  voice  behind  her  cried : 

"  Pascaline !  O  Pascaline ! " 

Trembling  like  a  leaf,  she  murmured,  "  Maxime !  thee,  Maxime !  " 
and  like  a  wounded  bird  fell  into  her  lover's  arms.  It  was  indeed  he ; 
still  handsome,  though  thin  and  pale.  He  pressed  her  to  his  breast 
very,  very  tightly. 

"It  is  not  true — tell  me,  it  is  not  true  thou  wilt  marry  Moise 
Dunez?" 

"  It  is  true.  If  I  do  not  marry  him,  my  father  will  die  for  want 
of  food.  Why  didst  thou  not  come  back  ? " 


346  FICTION. 

"  Because  the  Spaniards  captured  me  and  kept  me  in  prison.      But 
I  am  now  free,  and  I  can  work." 

"But  what  would  become  of  father,  should  they  capture  thee 


"  Speak  not  of  such  things,  dearest ;  let  us  not  discuss  them.  I 
love  thee." 

And  he  covered  her  face  with  kisses,  and  he  drew  her  gently 
toward  the  grotto,  and  she  resisted  not ;  and  in  the  soft  light  of  the 
great  cave  they  talked  to  each  other  in  low,  very  low  tones,  each 
pressed  to  each  other's  heart  in  infinite  ecstasy  of  reciprocal  love. 
But  at  last,  tearing  herself  from  his  arms,  she  said : 

"  "Tis  late,  late !     Let  me  go  now ;  I  hear  midnight  striking." 
"  Nay,  'tis  not  midnight ;  'tis  only  a  flight  of  sea-gulls  whirring 
by"- 

A  long  time  afterward  she  said : 

"  Oh,  how  the  sea  roars !     What  if  we  should  be  swallowed  up ! " 
"  Nay,  'tis  not  the  sea  roaring ;  'tis  only  the  chanting  of  our  love." 
A  long  time  afterward  she  said  once  more : 
"  O  Maxime,  dost  not  hear  how  the  wind  raves  ? " 
"  Nay,  'tis  not  the  raving  of  winds ;  'tis  Our  Lady  of  Guadalupe 
passing  by  !     The  last  hours  of  our  life  are  the  first  of  our  night  of 
love.     Thou  shalt  never  marry  the  Other  now !     Lo !  love,  this  is  our 
nuptial  chamber;  and  the  wave  shall  be  our  vast  green  winding- 
sheet  ! " 

And  he  closed  her  mouth  with  kisses  of  fire. 


They  found  the  twain  next  day  interlocked  in  the  embrace  of  death, 
and  that  grotto  is  still  called  La  Chambre  d' Amour.  The  old  man  is 
now  quite  paralyzed.  He  begs  for  alms  beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
church  walls.  He  seldom  speaks,  but  from  time  to  time  men  hear 
him  muttering  to  himself : 

"  "Woe !  woe !  La  esperanza  era  verde,  y  un  borrico  la  comio !  " 
("  Hope  was  green,  and  an  ass  devoured  it.") 

[Translated  jrom  the  French.} 


LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC. 

BY    JOHN    DIMITKY. 

[JOHN  BULL  SMITH  DIMITRY,  or  John  Dimitry,  as  he  usually  signs  his  name,  is  the 
eldest  son  of  Professor  Alexander  Dimitry.  Born  at  Washington,  D.  C.,  December  27, 
1835,  he  was  educated  at  College  Hill,  near  Raymond,  Miss.  During  his  father's  term 
as  United  States  Minister  to  Nicaragua  and  Costa  Rica  he  was  Secretary  of  the  Lega- 
tion. During  the  Civil  War  he  served  the  Confederacy,  first  as  a  soldier  in  the  Army 
of  Tennessee,  then  as  chief  clerk  of  the  Post  Office  Department,  at  Richmond.  In 
1874-76  he  was  Professor  of  English  and  French  in  Colegio  Caldas,  Barranquilla, 
United  States  of  Colombia.  He  was,  for  seven  years,  dramatic  and  literary  critic  of  the 
New  Orleans  Times.  In  1881-89  he  was  editorially  connected  with  the  New  York  Mail 
and  Express.  His  History  and  Geography  of  Louisiana  (1877)  was  for  many  years  a 
popular  text-book  in  the  public  schools  of  the  State.  His  Atahualpa's  Curtain  (1888) 
is  a  semi-historical  novel,  treating  mainly  of  the  customs  of  the  people  of  the  United 
States  of  Colombia.  His  latest  literary  production  is  The  Queen's  Letters,  an  historical 
drama  in  five  acts.] 

I. 

THERE  was  no  doubt  of  it.  Fernand  Torres  had  the  freshest, 
pinkest  complexion  of  any  man  in  the  great  city  of  the  Crescent, 
wherein  those  two  natural  enemies,  trade  and  music,  for  three-quarters 
of  a  century,  have  worked  together  in  the  pleasantest  of  unions. 

This  Fernand  was  a  man — and  his  type  is  not  met  too  often — 
whom  men  could  respect  without  envy,  and  women  love  without 
humiliation.  For  the  men,  he  had  the  muscles  of  Milo  and  the  graces 
of  Juan  Giron.  It  was  he  who  had  set  the  city  agog,  after  a  foolish 
wager,  by  tooling  a  six-in-hand  pony-trap  along  the  "  Shell  Koad." 
It  was  he  who  had  ridden  his  own  "  Lightning  "  in  a  famous  race  won 
by  that  more  famous  horse — the  proudest  victory  recorded  in  the 
chronicles  of  the  old  "  Kidge."  It  was  he  who  had  struggled  for  a 
brave  five  minutes  with  the  rushing  waters  of  the  Father-stream  and 
brought  out  all  dripping  but  safe,  all  pale  but  heroic,  a  certain 
Mademoiselle  de  Beaumanoir.  For  the  rest,  he  was  a  pronounced 
dandy,  affected  the  fragrant  Viuditas  of  Ambalema,  opened  the  freest 
of  purses,  had  the  readiest  ear  for  needy  friends,  and  the  scantiest 
memory  of  favors  granted.  In  short,  he  was  the  half  of  a  modern 
Admirable  Crichton,  one  who  would  have  ridden  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  the  marvellous  Scotchman  at  the  tilting  matches  of  the  Louvre, 
although  he  might  not  have  cared  particularly  to  claim  brotherhood 
with  him  in  his  bout  with  the  wise  heads  of  the  University  of  Paris. 


348  FICTION. 

"  A  devilish  fine  fellow,''  cried  the  club  men ;  "  but,  by  Jove !  too 
much  of  a  prig.  Why  doesn't  Fernand  drink  and  gamble  like  the 
rest  of  us  ?  " 

"  Isn't  he  handsome  ?  "  sighed  the  society  girls,  "  so  strong,  so 
noble-looking,  so  rich ;  but,  dear  me !  just  a  little  too  good.  Why 
doesn't  he  flirt  like  the  rest  of  them  ?  " 

To  speak  the  truth,  Fernand' s  comrades  were  not  without  cause  for 
complaint.  He  was — in  his  inmost  nature — something  more  than  they 
were  allowed  to  know ;  a  quite  other  creature  than  the  courtly  man. 
known  to  society,  the  stately  framer  of  compliments  to  fashionable 
beauties,  the  breathful  swimmer  who  could  cheat  even  the  Mississippi 
of  its  prey,  and  the  bold  rider  who  on  the  Metairie  could  win  heavy 
stakes  and  laughingly  decline  to  receive  them.  Somebody  asked 
lightly,  of  Fernand's  friend,  Pere  Kouquette,  what  he  thought  of  him. 

"  Ce  cJier  Fernand,"  quietly  replied  Chahta-Ima,*  while  he  pressed 
back  with  both  hands  his  long  black  curls,  "  is  a  veritable  modern 
Saint  Christopher.  He  has  broad  shoulders,  you  say  ?  Eh  lien  !  so 
had  Saint  Christopher." 

This  nut  was  the  very  next  day  presented  to  Society,  which  at 
once  tried  its  teeth  on  it.  "  Saint  Christopher's  shoulders  were  broad," 
exclaimed  Society  ;  "  Ion  !  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  Fernand  \ " 

Puzzle  or  no  puzzle,  there  was  one  point  I  wish  to  make  plain,  on 
which  everybody  agreed.  Fernand's  complexion  was  simply  perfect. 
"  A  surface  white  as  snow  touched  with  the  blush  of  the  arbutus,"  was 
what  a  dainty  admirer,  evidently  feminine,  had  called  it.  To  say  the 
truth,  there  were  some  in  the  circle  who  were  rather  envious  of  that 
pink  blushing  in  the  snow. 

Who  was  Fernand,  after  all  ?  He  was  a  campaynard,  not  a  city 
man.  He  was  the  heir,  as  he  had  been  the  only  child,  of  a  wealthy 
planter,  whose  magnificent  plantation  spread  a  mile  or  more  along  the 
low  banks  of  Bayou  Lafourche  in  Louisiana.  A  grave  old  citizen 
remembered  well  that,  somewhere  about  the  '30's,  Torres  pere  had 
taken  refuge  in  this  free  country  from  the  vengeance  of  a  volcanic 
government  in  New  Granada.  That  he  was  rich  was  proved  by  his 
purchase,  cash  down,  of  a  splendid  estate,  house,  lands,  slaves,  and  by 
his  subsequent  style  of  living.  He  recollected  perfectly  that  the  wife, 
a  beautiful  woman  crowned  with  piety,  had  died  in  a  few  years  (he 
had  forgotten  how  many),  and  of  what  disease  he  had  no  clear  idea. 

"  As  to  Camille,  he  died  in  1855,"  said  the  grave  old  citizen,  exhal- 
ing, meditatively,  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette. 

Of  the  son,  he  had  known  nothing  until  his  appearance  in  the  city. 

*  "  Chahta-Ima  "  (Choctaw-Leader)  is  a  name  given  by  the  Indians  to  Pere  Adrien 
Rouquette,  the  poet-priest  of  Louisiana,  and  their  apostle. 


LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC.  349 

What,  between  those  dates,  had  really  become  of  him  ?  That  was  soon 
displayed  by  the  youth  himself  on  several  open  pages  before  an  eager 
Society,  which  turned  all  its  eye-glasses  upon  them.  He  had  gone  to 
Heidelberg,  had  not  come  out  ill  in  its  student-quarrels,  had  returned 
after  an  extended  tour  to  receive  his  dying  father's  blessing,  and  had 
come  to  pass  the  winter  in  New  Orleans,  which,  in  the  two  languages 
of  the  Mother  State,  is  known  as  the  "  city  "  and  « la  ville." 

About  himself  there  was  no  mystery— not  the  smallest.  But  could 
the  same  be  said  of  an  old  Indian  woman,  who  was  his  constant  com- 
panion—who had  stood  by  him  in  student-quarrels  at  Heidelberg— 
who  would  not  be  left  behind  during  his  tour  in  the  East — who  insisted 
on  keeping  clean  his  rooms  in  Paris,  London,  New  York — and  who 
was  now  doing  the  same  service  in  his  quiet  chambers  on  Eoyal  Street  ? 

Some  had  chanced  to  meet  Confianza,  as  she  was  named — a  tall,  lean 
woman,  whose  head  was  persistently  muffled  in  a  mantilla  ;  a  woman 
who,  though  unbent  with  the  years  that  had  crowned  that  head  with 
the  glory  of  old  age,  had  a  strong-set,  many-wrinkled  face ;  a  woman 
with  a  swarthy  skin,  and  a  wistful  look  that  seemed  to  tell  of  inward 
wrestlings  ;  a  woman,  in  a  word,  cursed  by  one  absorbing  thought. 

Here  the  opened  page  of  Fernand's  story  came  to  an  end.  But 
there  was  another  page — a  tender,  timid  page,  which  no  one  could 
read  save  Fernand,  Confianza,  and  a  certain  fair  young  girl  who  lived 
in  his  own  parish. 

A  nutter  of  interest,  as  sudden  as  it  was  temporary,  had  some  time 
before  centred  in  this  very  young  lady,  Mademoiselle  Blanche  de 
Beaumanoir,  because,  as  already  told,  she  had,  while  crossing  the  ferry 
to  Algiers,  lost  her  balance  and  fallen  overboard  in  mid-stream.  Her 
preserver,  Fernand  himself,  was  thrown  forward,  at  this  supreme 
moment,  into  the  broad  glare  that  falls  upon  all  gallant  saviors  of 
endangered  beauty. 

He  did  not  take  over-kindly  to  the  glare.  No  more  did  Mademoi- 
selle Blanche,  who,  however,  had  never  shone  more  brightly  than 
when  friends  trooped  around  her  to  congratulate  her.  At  last,  con- 
gratulations ceased  perforce.  Mademoiselle  Blanche,  it  was  given 
out,  had  returned  to  her  country  home.  No  one  noticed  it — yet  such 
was  the  fact — that,  after  this  incident,  Fernand's  visits  to  his  planta- 
tion were  more  frequent  and  more  prolonged  than  before. 

Fortunately,  there  was  no  icy  rigueur  of  Creole  domestic  life  to 
block  the  happiness  of  these  two.  It  had  melted  before  the  priceless 
services  of  the  suitor.  I  do  not  say  that  the  good  people  on  Bayou 
Lafourche  did  not  suspect  this  happy  idyl  dropping  its  roses  among 
them.  To  the  proverbial  walls  with  ears  must  be  added  the  proverbial 
servants  with  tongues.  Gossip  flew  on  free  wing  around  the  neighbor- 


350  FICTION. 

hood  of  La  Quinta  de  Bolivar,  as  Torres  pere  had  named  his  Southern 
home,  or  La  Quinte,  as  the  popular  ignorance  had  corrupted  it.  But 
it  never  reached  the  city. 

It  was  in  the  spring-time.  The  magnolia  grandiflora  was  slowly 
baring  her  white  bosom  to  the  eager  sun,  while  the  myrtle  tossed  him, 
in  odorous  coquetry,  her  plumed  crest ;  the  mystic  oleander,  telling  of 
desert  founts  and  dark-haired  Arabian  girls,  was  opening  its  rosy 
petals ;  and  when  the  sun  had  left  his  loves  lamenting  to  seek  an 
unknown  couch  beyond  the  cypriere,  a  great,  heavy,  pervading  per- 
fume, coming  from  under  the  wings  of  the  night,  told  of  the  nearness 
of  the  jasmine.  But  above  all  these  scents  there  stole  over  the  railings 
on  low,  broad  balconies  fronting  the  bayou,  and  in  the  causeries  high 
and  low,  the  gentle  odor  of  orange  blossoms — blossoms  that  were  not 
real,  but  were  the  gracious  prophecies  of  coming  happy  hours,  a  sacred 
altar,  and  a  holy  ring. 

II. 

One  star-lit  night  in  April,  the  moon  rose  clear,  full,  queenly.  She 
threw  the  forest  into  gloom,  but  touched  with  silver  the  broad- 
spreading  fields  in  front  of  it.  And  as  the  waters  of  the  bayou  caught 
upon  their  dark  and  frowning  bosom  her  radiance,  they  broke  into 
rippling  laughter  and  flowed  in  smiles  gulfward. 

Beaumanoir  itself  was  all  brilliant  with  light,  which  blazed  through 
the  open  doors  and  windows.  M.  de  Beaumanoir  had  this  evening, 
through  a  soiree,  made  a  formal  announcement  of  the  engagement  of 
Fernand  and  Blanche.  The  spacious  rooms  were  crowded.  At  every 
door  and  window  the  slaves,  with  open  mouths  but  tender  hearts, 
were  watching  that  mysterious  process  which  was  to  usher  Mamselle 
into  the  dignity  of  Madame.  The  vast  grounds  were  filled  with  a 
motley  crowd,  because  the  poorer  neighbors  and  slaves  alike  had 
come  to  catch  that  light  of  joy  which,  like  marriage  in  the  Mother 
Church,  comes  but  once  in  a  Lifetime.  The  veranda  was  here  and 
there  lit  by  colored  lanterns.  Through  the  raised  windows  was  to  be 
caught  the  flitting  of  the  dancers ;  and  the  sound  of  laughter  and 
music  made  the  outer  crowd,  under  the  trees  of  the  avenue,  turn 
round  and  round  in  many  a  fantastic  twirl  unknown  to  the  guests. 

While  eyes  and  ears  among  the  open-mouthed  servants  at  the  doors 
and  windows,  among  the  uninvited  guests  in  the  garden  and  on  the 
grounds,  are  fully  occupied,  two  figures  leave  the  brilliant  parlors  to 
take  the  air. 

"  Mais,  tfla  M'sieu  Fernand"  cries  a  voice.  "  Yes,"  echoes  another. 
"  M'sieu  Fernand  and  Mamselle  Blanche  !  " 


LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC.  351 

The  lookers-on  were  right.  It  was  Fernand  and  Blanche  who  had 
appeared  on  the  veranda.  The  conversation  was  as  brief  as,  judging 
from  signs,  it  must  have  been  tender.  To  the  horror  of  gossips 
female,  and  to  the  chuckles  and  nudgings  of  veteran  gossips  male,  the 
watchers  without  saw  a  sudden  lifting  of  Mademoiselle  Blanche's  face 
and  a  bend  of  M'sieu  Fernand's.  And  there  was  not  one  of  the  unseen 
observers  who  would  not  have  said  that  there  had  been  a  kiss  given 
and  taken  on  the  broad  veranda  of  Beaumanoir,  under  the  blessing  of 
the  full  moon. 

A  light  form  was  seen  gliding  back  to  the  parlors,  Fernand  remain- 
ing behind.  One  old  gossip  under  the  trees  thus  commented :  "  Tiens, 
you  see  M'sieu  Fernand.  He  stay  to  tank  de  bon  Dieu;  Oui-da ! 
mais  il  a  bon  raison" 

But  something  else  was  presently  visible ;  for  at  a  bound  Fernand 
had  left  his  place  and  was  fighting  fire — fire  that  seemed  to  envelop  a 
woman.  A  Japanese  lantern,  hung  in  the  doorway,  had  caught  fire, 
burnt  the  cord  that  upheld  it,  and  had  fallen  upon  the  light  Spanish 
wrap  worn  by  Blanche.  It  was  but  a  moment  for  Fernand  to  grasp 
the  filmy  lace  fastened  by  a  pin,  to  tear  it  burning  from  his  darling's 
form,  and  with  his  hands  and  feet  to  crush  out  the  leaping  flames.  All 
told,  he  had  not  been  sixty  seconds  at  it.  But  the  guests  in  alarm  were 
now  crowding  the  Veranda.  Mademoiselle  Blanche  had  come  out  of 
it  well.  Her  white  neck  was  slightly  blistered.  By  good  fortune  her 
face — that  lovely  face — had  escaped  uninjured.  And  as  to  Fernand, 
only  his  clothes  had  suffered. 

"  See,"  he  cried,  holding  out  the  brave  hands  which  had  fought  the 
flames  and  conquered  them,  "  see,  friends,  my  hands  are  not  even 
scorched  ! " 

Each  guest  judged  the  miracle  from  his  own  point  of  view. 

"  It  takes  Fernand  to  be  lucky,"  called  out  his  acquaintances. 

"Monsieur  Torres  is  surely  protected  by  God,"  echoed  Made- 
moiselle Blanche. 

"  The  most  amazing  thing  I  ever  heard  in  my  life,"  shouted  that  old 
hero  General  Yictoire.  "Sacre  bleu  !  What  would  I  not  have  given 
to  have  had  that  Fernand  at  Chalmette !  and  thou,  too,  Beaumanoir, 
wouldst  thou  not  ?  Fire  enough  behind  the  barricades  there  for  any 
salamander,  eh,  mon  brwue?"  And  the  veteran  chuckled  while  he 
took  a  huge  pinch  of  Perique^w. 

"  There  is  something  abnormal  in  this,"  was  Dr.  Tousage's  profes- 
sional comment,  whispered  to  himself. 

Once  again  Fernand's  cheery  voice  was  heard.  Exhibiting  wrist- 
band and  coat-sleeve  all  charred,  leaving  the  strong  muscular  arm 
mocking  at  the  trial  by  fire,  he  exclaimed  laughingly : 


352  FICTION. 

"  I  am  off.  It  is  early — a  little  past  nine  o'clock.  La  Quinte  is 
a  bare  half-mile  away.  A  sharp  gallop,  and  it  will  be  but  a  short  ten 
minutes  to  change  my  clothes  and  return.  Don't  wait  for  me.  Let 
the  dance  go  on.  Au  revoir,  mesdames" 

And  with  the  light  limbs  of  young  manhood  he  was  away.  He 
reined  his  horse  where  he  saw  a  light  in  a  room — a  light  that  told  of 
the  faithful  watch  of  his  old  nurse.  Crazy  with  joy  he  burst  upon 
her.  Why  not  ?  He  looked  upon  his  last  adventure  as  the  crown  of 
his  love.  Surely  it  was  he  who  had  been  destined  from  creation  to 
be  Blanche's  savior.  He  was  full  of  that  proud  happiness  which  is 
born  of  danger  encountered  for  one  beloved.  What  true  lover  would 
not  rejoice  if,  twice,  his  love  had  owed  her  life  to  him  ? 

"  Here,  Confianza,  another  coat  and  a  clean  shirt !  I  have  been 
fighting  fire." 

"  Fightin'  de  fire  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  see  what  it  has  done." 

He  laughed  as  he  showed  his  coat  and  shirt,  both  burned  and  well- 
nigh  sleeveless.  The  old  woman  had  no  eyes  for  these.  She  had  crept 
close  to  him,  and  was  caressing  his  hands  nervously — furtively  almost, 
as  it  seemed. 

"  An'  de  poor  hands — dey  must  hurt  you,  no  ? " 

"  They  ?  Not  at  all.  Why,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  that  is  the 
most  astonishing  part  of  it  all.  Old  General  Yictoire  was  right.  I 
am  a  real  salamander." 

"  Hijo  mio,  que  estd  diciendome  f  "  broke  forth  from  the  old  Indian 
in  her  native  tongue,  as  she  leaped  to  her  feet,  all  trembling. 

She  stood  as  might  some  Priestess  of  the  Sun,  devoted  unto  death, 
when  the  head  of  royal  Atahualpa  deluged  with  its  sacred  blood  the 
holy  Peanan  Stone ! 

Fernand  was  struck  by  the  old  woman's  look.  Once  before  had 
he  seen  it— once,  when  a  round,  dull  white  mark  had  come  upon  his 
forehead,  stayed  for  a  month,  and  then,  fought  by  science,  had  left 
the  tiniest  of  scars.  That  was  when  he  was  a  student  at  Heidelberg, 
and  holding  his  own  in  the  fighting-gardens  of  Zur  Hirschgasse. 
Once  afterward  it  had  appeared — this  time  on  his  broad  breast — but 
he  had  said  nothing  of  it  to  Confianza. 

"Don't  be  crazy,  dear  old  nurse.  Look  at  my  hands.  Touch 
them  for  yourself ;  there  is  nothing  wrong  about  them.  I  said  that  I 
fought  the  fire ;  I  was  wrong.  I  only  played  with  it.  Come,  kiss 
your  boy,  and  after  that,  a  clean  shirt  and  another  coat ! " 

She  threw  her  withered  arms  around  Fernand's  neck.  She  pressed 
her  lips  to  his  mouth — one  looking  on  might  well  think  with  a  touch 
of  sublime  defiance.  She  kissed  his  two  hands — those  hands  that  were 


LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC.  353 

so  strong  and  had  been  so  brave.  Then  she  sat  on  the  floor  near  him 
still  holding  them  within  her  own.  She  tried  to  smile  ;  but  it  was 
not  a  smile  that  would  have  done  one  good  to  see. 

"  Fernand,"  she  said  gently,  «  tu  remember  of  dat  book  which  tu 
papa  to  you  gave,  when  tu  has  not  more  of  quince  anos  ?  " 

"  Yes>  yes  ;  I  have  read  it  a  dozen  times  or  more.     B 


But  what  has 

that  to  do  with  my  going  out  ?     Don't  you  know  Blanche  is  waiting- 
forme?" 

The  old  woman  seemed  not  to  hear  him. 

"  No  forget  what  a  book  dat  was—  dose  poor  peoples  ?  " 

She  felt  the  hands  on  which  her  tears  were  now  streaming  growing 
cold.  They  did  not  tremble,  but  the  chill  of  the  grave  had  fallen 
upon  them.  Still  he  said  nothing,  but  shivered  as  though  the  cold 
had  really  struck  him  on  that  balmy  April  night  smiling  among  its 
roses  and  gardenias. 

"  Der'  was  something  'bout  de  fire.     Dose  who  sick  no  can  burn 
'esef,  no  can  feel  notin'  —  oh!  hijio  mio  —  have  calm!"  she 
and  he  rose  to  his  feet,  murmuring  : 

"  My  God  !—  not  this—  not  this  !  " 

He  staggered  as  he  rose,  and  swayed  like  some  tall  tree  touched  by 
the  tempest's  wrath.  He  understood  now  his  doom  too  well  ;  but  he 
threw  off  the  weakness  as  he  began  to  pace  the  room,  first  slowly, 
then  rapidly.  The  pink  did  not  leave  his  cheeks  ;  but  his  eyes  glit- 
tered piteously,  yet  half  defiantly,  like  those  of  a  noble  animal  caught 
in  a  trap  unaware.  The  old  woman,  still  seated  on  the  floor,  was 
reciting  her  rosary.  There  were  words  that  came  unbidden  to  the 
sacred  beads,  words  of  a  personal  application,  that,  through  tears,  tell 
of  human  pity,  and  better  still,  of  human  trust  in  the  Divine  pity  : 
"  May  God  have  mercy  upon  my  boy  !  May  God  have  mercy  !  " 
And  from  the  man  treading  the  floor  came,  in  lugubrious  response, 
the  wail  of  that  sorrowful  Sister  of  Human  Prayer  —  that  Sister,  hag- 
gard, hopeless,  tearless,  who  knows  no  invocation  to  Divine  Justice 
save  to  call  it  to  judgment  : 

"  My  God  !  what  have  I  done  to  deserve  this  ?  " 

Suddenly,  in  his  rapid  strides,  Fernand  halted  before  the  table,  on 
which  a  lamp  was  burning.  Seizing  the  lamp,  he  deliberately  circled 
the  heated  chimney  with  his  right  hand.  Then  he  clasped  it  with  his 
left  hand.  Removing  the  chimney,  he  kept  one  hand  steadily  in  the 
flame.  After  that,  the  other. 

"  You  are  right,  Confianza,"  he  said  coldly  ;  "  I  must  not  go  back 
to  Mademoiselle  Blanche." 

"  Que  Dios  tenga  piedad  de  mi  hijo  !  "  (May  God  have  mercy  on 
my  boy  !)  rose  again  from  the  praying  woman.     She  knew  her  boy 
23 


354  FICTION. 

well.  Whosoever  might  be  deceived  by  his  calmness,  it  was  not  she 
vfho  had  nursed  him — oh,  no,  not  she  ! 

"  The  fire-test  is  satisfactory,"  continued  Fernand,  in  a  tone  that 
appalled  her.  "  There  can  be  no  illusion  here.  The  leper's  skin  can 
burn,  but  the  burn  leaves  no  mark ;  nor  can  pain  be  felt.  My  hands 
should  have  been  burned ;  I  feel  no  pain ;  it  is  clear,  then,  /  am  a 
leper  !  " 

"  Que  Dios  tenga  piedad  de  mi  Jiijo  !  Por  Dios  !  Por  su  Santis- 
sima  Madre  !  Por  todos  los  Santos  y  Santas  del  cielo  !  "  (May  God 
have  mercy  on  my  boy !  For  Christ's  sake !  For  His  holy  Mother's 
sake !  For  the  sake  of  all  the  saints  and  angels  of  Heaven !)  wailed 
once  more  from  the  floor,  like  a  prayer  for  a  parting  soul.  It  was 
unheard  by  Fernand.  A  bitter  smile  passed  over  his  lips  as  he  said : 

"  But  come !  Blanche  must  not  be  forgotten.  She  must  learn  this 
charming  finale  to  our  hopes  and  our  loves." 

Paper,  pen,  and  ink  were  before  him.  Not  pausing  to  cull  phrases, 
much  less  to  think,  he  wrote  a  note  and  put  it  into  an  envelope  which 
he  sealed.  Kinging  a  bell,  a  black  presented  himself. 

"  Baptiste,  take  this  letter  at  once  to  Mademoiselle  Blanche.  Place 
it  in  her  own  hands.  You  need  not  report." 

After  Baptiste  had  left,  Fernand  said  : 

"  My  good  Confianza,  I  wish  to  be  alone.  -Leave  me  now.  To- 
morrow, by  eight  o'clock,  let  Dr.  Tousage  be  here." 

He  did  not  leave  the  chair  through  the  long  black  night.  He  was 
alone — alone  Avith  the  sorrowful  Sister  of  Human  Prayer.  He  made 
no  movement,  he  breathed  no  sigh,  he  murmured  no  word  through 
all  the  hours,  but  fell  like  a  death-bell  upon  the  heart  of  the  figure 
crouched  like  a  faithful  dog,  on  the  other  side  of  his  chamber  door. 

And  so  the  bright  sun  found  them. 

III. 

Baptiste's  master  had  told  him  that  he  need  not  report  the  result 
of  his  visit  to  Mademoiselle  Blanche.  But  long  before  noon  the  next 
day,  Fernand,  had  he  chosen,  might  have  heard  his  story  from  a  hun- 
dred tongues.  There  was  not  a  guest  at  Beaumanoir,  over  night,  that 
had  not  borne  it  away,  through  the  darkness  and  gardenia-scented  air, 
a  fearful  but  delicious  burden.  There  was  not  a  passenger  on  the  boat 
which  had  left  that  morning,  who  was  not  carrying  Fernand's  name, 
and  blasted  love,  a  morsel  of  the  juiciest  for  the  delectation  of  the 
great  city.  His  tragic  story,  too,  was  in  the  mouths,  and  had  touched 
the  hearts,  and  had  filled  the  eyes,  of  rude  but  sympathetic  workers 
a-field  in  the  early  summer  sunshine  ;  and  there  was  a  dew  that  had 


LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC.  355 

not  fallen  from  the  sky  upon  many  a  plough-handle  and  many  an  axe- 
helve.  For  there  was  not  a  slave  at  Beaumanoir  or  La  Quinte'that  had 
not  prayed  to  hear  the  joyful  marriage-bells,  which  would  bring  the 
two  plantations  under  the  same  master  and  mistress. 

Then,  too,  there  were— unhappily,  not  far  off— men  and  women 
whom  all  avoided ;  men  and  women  hobbling  on  crutches,  crawling 
aground,  moaning  on  pestiferous  beds,  who,  selfish  by  nature,  had  for 
once  been  brought  together,  not  in  cynicism  but  pity.  To  them  the 
gossip  was  not  sweet.  It  was  bitter— as  bitter,  as  abhorrent,  as  their 
own  flesh.  Fernand  had  been  their  truest  friend  and  most  fearless 
neighbor.  "  Lui,  un  lepreux  f  Mon  Dieu  !  if  he  has  got  it  from  us, 
we  are  accursed  indeed,"  old  Pere  Carancro  had  said ;  and  with  blurred 
eyes  and  shaking  hands,  all  had  concurred. 

After  all,  what  had  happened  at  Beaumanoir  ? 

Obedient  to  his  master,  Baptiste  had  sought  Mademoiselle  Blanche 
privately.  He  had  found  her  seated  with  two  friends,  Mademoiselle 
Diane  de  Monplaisir  and  Mademoiselle  Marie  Bonsecour,  in  a  small 
room  giving  on  the  veranda  and  opening  into  the  parlor  through  a 
curtained  door.  Baptiste,  on  presenting  the  note,  had  simply  said : 

"  Mamselle  Blanche,  M'sieu  Fernand,  he  tell  me  to  give  dis  to  you." 

Mademoiselle  Blanche  had  opened  the  note  eagerly.  It  could  not 
have  been  long,  nor  could  its  contents  have  been  over-pleasant.  So 
afterward  affirmed  Mademoiselle  Diane,  who  added  that  Blanche  had 
turned  pale,  "  mais  oui,  pale  comme  la  mort"  had  uttered  a  faint  moan, 
and,  in  attempting  to  rise  from  her  chair,  had  fallen  back  insensible. 
What  had  become  of  the  note  itself  ?  Mademoiselle  Diane  had  kept  her 
black  marmoset  eyes  fixed  upon  that.  She  declared  dramatically  that 
Mademoiselle  Blanche  had  thrown  it  haughtily  away  after  reading  it. 
Mademoiselle  Marie,  however,  did  not  agree  with  her.  She  said  that 
the  note,  if  it  had  fallen  at  all,  had  not  fallen  until  Blanche  became 
unconscious. 

Bad  news  fills  the  air  like  electricity.  It  was  scarce  a  moment 
before  the  curtained  doors  were  torn  aside,  and  a  crowd  of  well-bred, 
though  curious,  guests  came  streaming  into  the  room.  At  their  head 
was  the  father.  He  was  about  approaching  his  daughter,  but,  hearing 
from  a  mob  of  angels  in  white  organdie  and  tulle  that  she  had  re- 
covered consciousness,  he  was  turning  aside  when  he  felt  his  arm 
touched  gently.  It  was  Mademoiselle  Diane  who  had  touched  him. 
She  pointed  silently  to  a  letter  on  the  floor.  Monsieur  de  Beaumanoir 
picked  it  up.  It  was  strange.  He  was  in  a  white  heat  of  anger,  cer- 
tainly ;  but,  on  reading  it,  he  did  not  look  so  much  angry  as  puzzled. 

"  What  can  this  be  ? "  he  muttered.  "  Vraiment,  im  mauvais farceur 
is  this  Fernand.  But  come,  my  friends,"  he  called  out,  in  a  loud  voice, 


356  FICTION. 

to  the  crowd  of  guests  who  had  already  thronged  the  room.  "  Made- 
moiselle mafille  is  in  good  hands.  This  note  is  from  Monsieur  Torres. 
She  has  been  somewhat  excited  by  that,  and  is  naturally  nervous. 
The  whole  affair  is  a  riddle  to  me.  Perhaps  some  among  you  may 
read  it  for  me." 

The  crowd  surged  back,  still  curious-eyed,  but  clearly  more  anxious 
than  when  it  had  torn  away  the  curtained  door. 

Monsieur  de  Beaumanoir  had  stationed  himself  by  the  mantel,  on 
which  blazed,  with  their  double  score  of  waxen  lights,  the  great  golden 
candelabras  that  had  descended,  son  to  son,  from  that  doughty  knight, 
Sieur  Eaoul  de  Beaumanoir,  who  had  died  with  Bayard  hard  by  the 
bloody  waters  of  the  Sesia.  I  do  not  know  how  it  was,  but  the  fair 
women  in  gauze  and  the  white-cravatted  men  seemed  to  be  a  court ; 
Blanche  forced  to  be  the  plaintiff ;  Fernand,  the  defendant ;  and  the 
owner  of  the  mansion  the  advocate  of  the — mystery.  For  mystery  in 
that  note  there  must  be,  so  whispered  one  to  the  other,  those  flurried 
beauties  that  circled,  in  broadening  folds,  around  the  mantel,  and,  as 
they  whispered,  turned  just  a  little  pale. 

For  his  part,  M.  de  Beaumanoir,  a  trifle  puzzled  and  unmistakably 
stirred,  seemed  nowise  anxious.  He  re-opened  the  note  impetuously. 

No  date,  no  address,  no  signature.     Nothing  save  these  words  : 

"  Do  not  misjudge  me  ;  but  I  must  not  go  back  to-night.  You  have  seen  the 
last  of  me.  Oh,  my  God  !  to  think  that  /  have  seen  the  last  of  you  !  I  do  not 
know  wherein  we  have  offended  Heaven  ;  but  God  is  angry  with  us.  I  am  what 
they  call — I  am — I  dare  not  write  what  loathsome  creature  I  have  become  to  myself 
since  a  half  hour.  Read  Second  Chronicles,  chapter  xxvi.,  verse  20.  That  verse 
speaks  for  me  who  cannot.  Read  it,  and  you  will  know  why  I  have  hasted  to  go  out 
from  what  to  me  was  not  a  sanctuary  of  the  Father,  but  higher  still,  his  Paradise." 

Nervously  removing  his  spectacles,  M.  de  Beaumanoir  turned 
interrogatively  to  the  brilliant  company. 

"  Eh  Hen  !  "  said  a  pert  and  petted  beauty  ;  "  Jest  une  question  de 
la  Bible.  Let  us  see  the  Bible." 

Mademoiselle  uttered  the  voice  of  Society. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  where  is  the  Bible  ?  "  cried  all. 

A  youth  of  tender  mustache,  and  with  the  reddest  of  roses  granted 
him  by  the  grace  of  Mademoiselle  Diane,  had,  at  that  lady's  nod, 
already  sought  the  great  Douay  Bible,  which  rested  upon  a  side  table 
immediately  under  a  sword  crossed  with  its  scabbard  upon  the  wall. 
Without  a  word  he  put  the  book  into  the  hands  of  M.  de  Beaumanoir. 
The  gray  old  man,  mustached  like  a  veteran  of  Chalmette,  opened  the 
Holy  Book  gingerly,  as  though  he  did  not  know,  gallant  gentleman 
and  ex-sabreur  that  he  was,  its  quiet  pages  quite  so  well  as  the  temper  of 


LE   TOMBEAU  BLANC.  357 

his  sabre.  He  had  seen  the  volume  certainly,  but  only  accidentally, 
so  to  speak,  as  he  might  be  leaning  over  it  to  read  for  the  thousandth 
time  the  inscription  :  "  Tribute  to— hem  /—by  admiring  company— 
hum  /—patriotic  services— ha  /—January  8, 1815."  Written  in  French, 
bound  in  Kussia,  heavily  edged  with  gold,  and  published  in  Paris,  the 
Sacred  Word,  while  being  little  noticed  by  the  master,  had  brought 
comfort  to  the  late  Madame  de  Beaumanoir,  as  it  was,  without  his 
knowledge,  the  daily  guide  of  his  daughter. 

The  company  drew  nearer  to  the  father.  From  the  press  of  loveli- 
ness, as  might  a  dainty  Bourbon  rose  from  a  basket  of  flowers,  stepped 
Mademoiselle  Diane  de  Monplaisir.  It  was  she  who  crept  close  to  the 
side  of  M.  de  Beaumanoir,  and  with  her  jewelled  fingers  turned  the 
leaves  till  her  index  finger  rested  upon  the  chapter  and  the  verse 
which  were  to  reveal  the  mystery  devouring  her.  With  a  stately  old- 
fashioned  bow,  though  with  no  suspicion  of  the  tragic  story  in  verse 
20,  the  old  man  read  these  words  slowly  aloud  : 

"And  Azariah,  the  chief  priest,  and  all  the  priests,  looked  upon  him,  and,  behold, 
he  was  leprous,  and  they  thrust  him  out  from  thence  ;  yea,  HIMSELF  hasted  to  go  out, 
because  the  Lord  had  smitten  Am." 

At  these  words,  so  passionless  yet  so  vivid,  so  filled  with  fire  yet 
so  death-cold,  a  great  hush  fell  upon  the  company.  It  was  as  though 
a  breeze  laden  with  the  poisonous  breath  of  poppies  had  passed 
through  the  room.  Psychologists  tell  us  that  a  single  thought  may 
work  in  madness  upon  a  crowd,  a  thought  springing  not  from  a  visible 
danger,  but  from  the  spur  of  a  hidden  terror.  Of  such  must  have 
been  the  feeling,  which  swept  like  a  cyclone  over  the  joyful  throng 
that  had  been  drinking  in  excitement  under  the  golden  lights  to  the 
sound  of  voluptuous  music.  A  thought  of  flight,  certain,  no  matter 
hoAV  or  whither,  only  that  it  should  be  that  very  instant,  out  of  the 
house,  out  of  the  grounds,  out  into  the  open  road,  shining  yellow- 
white  under  the  full  moon — anywhere,  anywhere  beyond  the  evil 
spirit  that  had  seized  upon  the  princely  hospitality  of  Beaumanoir,  and 
was  even  then  draping,  by  a  mystic  and  awful  hand,  its  laughing  walls 
in  mourning. 

In  the  sauve  qui  pent  of  an  army,  pride  is  thrown  aside  with  the 
knapsack.  In  the  sauve  qui  pent  of  Society,  it  is  courtesy  that  is 
dropped  with  the  slippers. 

One  by  one  the  courtly  company,  with  its  color  and  its  glitter  and 
its  laughter,  left  the  salon.  One  by  one,  without  even  a  nod  to  their 
old  host  who  stood  more  dazed  than  indignant  on  his  threshold,  they 
streamed,  with  burnous  and  nubias,  and  what  not,  snatched  pell-mell 
on  the  way,  down  the  broad  steps  of  the  front  veranda,  and  into  the 


358  FICTION. 

gravelled  walk,  where  were  the  carriages  of  the  ladies  and  the  horses 
of  their  escorts.  For  once,  one  may  fancy,  there  was  none  of  that 
idle  talk — none  of  those  soft  whispers,  those  empty  phrases,  those 
vaporous  compliments,  given  with  an  air  and  received  with  a  blush — 
that  make  up  the  unwritten  literature  of  carriage-windows.  A  mighty 
fear  shook  all,  and  the  colored  coachmen  were  told  in  sharp  tones, 
altogether  new  to  those  fatted  favorites,  to  drive  fast  and  stop  at 
nothing.  Through  the  noble  avenue  of  live  oaks,  famous  throughout 
that  section,  through  the  Arcadian  scene,  under  Chinese  lanterns,  by 
rustic  groups  at  their  simple  pleasures,  the  carriages  thundered,  and 
the  riders  rushed  by  plying  whip  and  spur. 

Among  the  last  that  reached  her  carriage  was  Mademoiselle  Diane 
de  Monplaisir.  She  was  in  no  sense  excited — that  young  lady  was 
too  poised  for  that,  but  it  had  suited  her  to  play  with  the  fears  of  her 
friends.  Her  garments  had  rustled  with  the  rest  down  the  steps,  but, 
on  leaving  the  salon,  she  had  been  particularly  careful  respectfully  to 
courtesy  before  her  host,  as  he  stood  erect  at  his  post  like  a  forgotten 
sentinel.  Having  given  this  lesson  of  social  tact,  she  thought  herself 
justified  in  raising  her  voice  to  a  decorously  high  pitch,  and  saying,  in 
the  shape  of  a  problem  presented  to  her  escorts  :  "  Mafoi,  Messieurs,  is 
not  this  a  pretty  comedy  with  which  Monsieur  Torres  has  favored  us  ?  " 

Trained  though  they  were  in  the  young  lady's  imperious  service, 
none  of  these  gallants  answered.  The  call  was  too  sudden,  and  the 
danger  altogether  too  pressing  for  that. 

It  had  not  struck  eleven  o'clock  before  the  mansion,  still  blazing 
with  the  lights  of  a  joyous  betrothal,  was  left  to  the  ghosts  destined 
to  haunt  its  walls  so  long  as  they  shall  stand.  Of  the  hundred  who 
had  frou-froued  that  evening  up  the  carpeted  steps,  who  had  opened 
very  promising  flirtations  of  their  own,  who  had  envied  Blanche  while 
they  coveted  Fernand,  not  one  remained  save  Dr.  Tousage  and  Made- 
moiselle Marie  Bonsecour.  It  was  not  long  after  that  hour  that  the 
doctor  himself,  having  seen  that  Blanche  was  recovered  and  in  gentle 
hands,  took  leave  of  the  old  man,  who  sat  crushed  and  broken  under 
the  wasting  lights  of  the  great  golden  candelabras.  As  he  descended 
the  steps,  Dr.  Tousage  said  to  himself  :  "  I  must  refer  to  my  abnormal 
cases.  It  was  what  I  suspected.  There  was  something  extraordinary 
in  his  insensibility  to  fire.  I  shall  see  Fernand  to-morrow." 

For  that  matter,  Dr.  Tousage,  had  he  chosen,  might  have  suspected 
years  and  years  before.  He  had  known  Fernand' s  mother.  He  had 
attended  her  in  her  last  illness,  and  had  seen  with  surprise  the  ante- 
mortal  pallor  give  place  to  a  post-mortal  rosiness.  The  case  had  been 
something  beyond  his  experience.  He  had  contented  himself  with 
classing  among  his  "  Abnormal  Cases  "  this  woman  who  had  looked 


LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC.  359 

as  blooming  in  her  coffin  as  she  had  done  in  her  boudoir,  and  whose 
roses  in  death  were  like  the  gorgeous  blossom  plucked  from  the  twin 
sister  of  Rappacini's  daughter. 

The  good  doctor  had  taken  no  account,  however,  of  the  fact  that 
La  Quinte,  fronting  broad  on  the  bayou,  and  spreading  deep  in  smiling 
fields  of  sugar-cane,  back  to  the  great  funereal  cypriere,  bordered 
perilously  on  a  world  ostracized  by  the  world,  between  which  and  it 
there  rises  a  wall  broader,  deeper,  higher,  more  deadly  repellent,  than 
ever  Chinese  fear  raised  against  Tartar  aggression.  A  world  not 
populous,  save  in  wrecked  hopes,  harrowing  dreams,  and  mournful 
shadows.  A  world  of  agonized  hearts,  of  putrid  ulcers,  of  flesh  drop- 
ping from  rotting  bones,  of  Selfishness  holding  a  Spartan  throne  with 
Horror,  of  the  Divine  likeness  distorted,  year  by  year,  till  the  very 
semblance  of  man,  born  in  His  gracious  image,  comes  to  be  blotted 
out.  A  world,  the  men  and  women  in  which  are  players  in  a  life- 
tragedy,  to  which  Samlet  is  a  comedy,  and  the  Duchess  of  Malfi  a 
melodrama. 

A  terrible  world  this — in  short,  a  world  of  LEPERS. 

In  the  parish  of  Lafourche,  along  Bayou  Lafourche,  there  are  lepers 
as  poisonous  as  Naaman,  and  as  incurable  as  Uzziah.  It  is  an  old 
story  barely  touched  here,  not  even  surfaced.  It  is  a  curse  which  law- 
makers, in  these  later  days,  are  called  upon  to  rub  out  or  to  wall  around. 
Practically,  there  has  always  been  a  walling  around  this  curse — this 
blot — whatsoever  one  may  choose  to  call  it ;  practically,  because  the 
neighbors  of  these  unhappy  people  have  lost  the  sentiment  of  neighbor- 
liness.  The  feeling  against  them  is  as  old  as  the  first  human  deformity, 
and  as  bitter  as  the  first  human  prejudice.  What  has  happened  to 
races  before  them,  offending  the  eye  of  civilization,  has  become  their 
fate.  Civilization  frowns  upon  her  accursed  races,  her  lepers,  her 
Cagots,  her  Marrons,  her  Colliberts,  her  Chuetas.  She  prescribes  for 
them  certain  metes  and  limits,  and  says  to  them,  "  O  God-abandoned, 
pass  not  beyond  these,  at  your  peril." 

The  doctors  prop  up  with  their  science  this  feeling.  They  agree 
that  a  peculiar  disease  is  confined  to  a  certain  class  of  the  population 
living  along  Bayou  Lafourche ;  declare  that  disease  to  be  leprosy,  and 
pronounce  it  cureless.  On  their  side,  the  sufferers  protest  vehemently 
in  denial.  No  one  takes  their  word,  while  they  themselves,  when 
compelled  to  wander  from  their  fields,  creep  with  furtive  look  and 
stealthy  step.  Like  lepers  everywhere,  those  of  Bayou  Lafourche  are 
the  Lemurida3  of  mankind.  After  all,  what  destroys  their  case  is  the 
single  fact  which  separates  them  absolutely  from  their  fellows—?/ 
once  attacked,  these  people  never  get  well.  Science  is  not  always  con- 
sistent ;  but  ages  ago  she  pronounced  a  judgment  against  herself  which 


360  FICTION. 

still  stands.  She  admitted  then,  as  she  admits  now,  that  she  is  power- 
less to  heal  a  leper.  It  needs  a  Christ  to  say :  "  Be  thou  clean,  and 
the  leprosy  is  cleansed." 

The  life  of  these  lepers,  if  a  tragedy,  has  a  plot  of  sorrow  simple 
enough.  There  are  not  many  of  them.  They  may  now  count  between 
twenty-five  and  fifty  families,  principally  poor,  all  of  whom  raise  their 
homes  of  corruption  on  Bayou  Lafourche.  They  are  not  bunched 
together  in  one  settlement,  but  stretch  out  along  the  stream  a  distance 
of  thirty  or  forty  miles,  scenting,  at  one  end,  the  soft  saccharine  smell 
of  growing  cane,  and  at  the  other  the  sharp  saline  odor  of  a  mighty 
gulf.  Their  awful  malady  is  an  inheritance  with  them  ;  their  suffer- 
ings are  acute ;  their  disfigurement  becomes,  in  time,  complete ;  but 
their  deaths,  though  from  the  same  disease,  do  not  create  an  epi- 
demic. 

What  the  Caqueurs  were  to  Bretagne,  and  the  Yaqueros  to  the 
Asturias,  these  lepers  are  to  Bayou  Lafourche.  Many-sided  are  the 
rumors  about  them ;  but  a  wide-spreading,  far-reaching  tongue  adds 
that  there  are  among  them  some  who  are  rich  in  this  world's  goods, 
and  yet  are  forced  to  take  this  world's  refuse. 

Xo  one  knew  all  this  better  than  Dr.  Tousage.  He  had  been 
prominent  among  those  brave  physicians  who  strive  to  be  healers. 
But,  as  it  happened,  he  was  not  thinking  of  Leper-Land  while  riding 
slowly  towards  La  Quinte.  Honest  Baptiste  was  in  wait.  There  was 
a  mystery  about  his  p^tit  maitre — so  much  Baptiste  knew.  Confianza's 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  and  they  dumfounded  the  simple  slave. 
Traditions  of  any  kind,  save  the  peaceful,  oftentimes  tender  gossip  of 
La  Quinte,  where  two  generations  of  kindly  masters  had  made  the 
furrows  of  labor  almost  as  full  of  roses  as  the  "  path  of  dalliance,"  had 
never  turned  Baptiste's  brain  into  a  race-track;  so,  on  the  doctor's 
arrival,  his  eyes  were  full  of  a  terror  inviting  inquiry,  but  above  all 
sympathy.  The  doctor  was  pre-occupied ;  he  gave  neither. 

"  Where  is  your  master,  Baptiste  ?  "  was  all  he  said. 

"  M'sieu  Fernand,  he  ees  in  la  bibliotec,"  replied  Baptiste,  with  a 
certain  awe  crossing  his  terror  at  right  angles.  Baptiste  fervently 
believed  that  the  ghost  of  his  old  master  walked  that  particular  room 
at  midnight.  And,  for  that  matter,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  find 
any  slave  within  five  leagues  who  did  not  agree  with  Baptiste. 

"  He  is  there,  is  he  ?     Then  I  know  the  way  very  well." 

Dr.  Tousage  found  Fernand  in  a  small,  well-lighted  room,  divided 
from  the  great  wide  parlors,  sombre  even  at  that  early  hour,  by  a 
falling  lace  curtain.  The  sunbeams  of  the  morning  streamed  through 
the  windows,  glinting  tenderly  the  backs  of  books  of  great  thinkers 
loved  by  Don  Camilo,  and  cherished  for  association's  sake  by  his  son. 


LE   TOMBEAU  BLANC.  361 

It  was  a  chamber  rich  in  windows  as  it  was  brilliant  in  light— a 
chamber  for  the  strong,  not  for  the  weak. 

"  Sapristi  !  "  said  the  doctor  to  himself,  "  open  windows  are  a  sign 
of  joy.  The  case  is  not  so  hopeless,  after  all." 

The  good  doctor  was  wrong  for  once.  Fernand  had  lost  hope ; 
or,  rather,  despair  had  pushed  hope  from  its  place,  and  there  brooded. 
The  young  man  was  seated  by  a  table  on  which  were  laid  two  books. 
One  was  a  copy  of  the  Bible ;  the  other,  Maundrel's  work  on  the 
Syrian  leprosy,  a  very  old  book,  and  as  rare  as  it  is  old.  Rising  as 
his  old  friend  entered,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  did  not  offer  his 
hand. 

"  Be  pleased  to  take  a  seat,  doctor." 

"Eh  lien!  Fernand,  what  is  all  this?  You,  a  Hercules,  and 
sick?" 

The  attempt  at  ease,  if  intended  to  deceive,  was  a  failure. 

The  young  man  faced  his  visitor. 

"  Stop,  doctor.  This  is  no  time  for  comedy.  I  am  still  a  Hercules, 
if  brawn  and  muscle  and  twenty-five  years  can  make  one.  But  there 
is  a  plague  about  me  more  deadly  to  bear  than  Dejanira's  robe." 

"  And  that  plague  is  —  ?  " 

"  Leprosy ! " 

"  Have  you  convinced  yourself  of  that  ? " 

"  Perfectly ;  and  you  also,  you  need  not  deny  it.  I  have  not  studied 
that  kindly  face  so  long  without  being  able  to  read  it." 

"  To  speak  frankly,  I  am  not  surprised.  But  does  the  disease  really 
exist  ?  It  is  because  I  wish  to  assure  myself  on  this  point  that  I  have 
come.  Think  over  my  question  quietly." 

"  Look  at  this,  doctor.     This  may  help  you  to  a  conclusion." 

While  saying  this  he  was  throwing  open  his  shirt,  revealing  a  small 
white-reddish  sore  slowly  eating  into  his  brawny  chest. 

"  I  have  never  been,  as  you  know,  doctor,  much  of  what  you  call 
a  thinking  man.  At  any  rate,  I  have  taken  this  to  be  the  mysterious 
'  date-mark,'  which,  at  some  time  in  his  life,  pursues  and  brands  each 
traveller  to  Bagdad.  It  first  broke  out  while  I  was  in  Paris,  some 
months  ago.  My  old  nurse  knows  nothing  of  it.  I  accepted  it  gayly 
enough.  I  argued  something  in  this  way.  I  had  not  forgotten  Bag- 
dad— why  should  Bagdad  forget  me  ? " 

"While  he  was  speaking,  the  physician  had  been  examining  the 
ulcer.  He  grew  more  thoughtful  as  he  looked. 

"  Has  this  increased  in  size  since  it  first  appeared  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  very  little." 

"  Any  pain  ? " 

"  No,  I  cannot  say  that  it  has  pained  me,  but  it  has  annoyed  me 


362  FICTION. 

considerably.  Eemember  that,  until  last  night,  whenever  I  thought 
of  it,  it  was  solely  in  connection  with  Bagdad.  With  my  physique, 
what  else  could  give  it  birth  ?  But  that  is  over  now.  It  is  not  the 
date-mark.  What,  then,  is  it  ? " 

Dr.  Tousage  knew  his  young  friend's  courage.  He  did  for  him 
what  he  would  not  have  done  for  a  weaker  soul.  He  took  refuge  in 
that  truth,  which  is  more  often  a  kindness  shown  by  this  world's 
healers  than  they  are  given  credit  for. 

"  This,"  he  replied  slowly,  "  represents  a  leprosy  already  developed." 

"  And  the  Salamanderism  of  last  night  ?  " 

"  Was  a  strong,  although  a  wholly  accidental,  proof  of  its  exist- 
ence." 

"  Accidental,  you  think  it  ?  I  look  upon  it  rather  as  providential," 
retorted  Fernand,  while  adding :  "  You  regard  my  case  as  hopeless, 
then?" 

"  Absolutely,  though  the  danger  is  not  immediate." 

"  In  other  words,  cher  docteur,  one  must  pay  for  being  Hercules. 
A  long  life,  and  each  knotted  muscle  prolonging  the  torture  which  it 
doubles,  that  is  the  story,  eh  ? "  said  the  young  man,  bitterly,  as  he 
touched  a  bell  on  the  table. 

In  response,  the  old  Indian  nurse  appeared  and  stood,  quietly  wait- 
ing, near  the  door. 

"  Look,  and  then  listen,  doctor,"  said  Fernand,  as  he  pointed  with 
his  finger  to  her.  "This  old  woman — you  know  her? — has  fairly 
haunted  me  through  life.  She  was  the  one  to  receive  me  at  my  birth. 
She  tended  me  through  my  babyhood.  She  protected  my  boyhood. 
When  my  mother  died,  she  became  mother  and  nurse  in  one.  She 
watched  me  in  my  plays.  She  interfered  in  my  disputes.  She  made 
me  the  laughing-stock  of  my  schoolmates  until  I  fought  them  into 
respect.  As  I  grew  older,  I  saw  that  in  her  love  there  was  a  large 
leaven  of  anxiety.  She  showed  it  during  my  years  at  Heidelberg. 
She  grew  thin  and  more  despondent  during  our  stay  in  the  East.  She 
hovered  around  me  in  Paris.  The  Quartier  Latin,  at  a  very  feverish 
time,  could  raise  no  barricade  against  her.  Mabille  had  no  terrors 
for  her.  I  found  her  everywhere  on  watch,  and  always  with  her  eyes 
fixed  wistfully  on  myself.  It  was  then  I  took  to  thinking  of  her  as  a 
woman  cursed  with  a  single  thought  that  had  borrowed  the  intensity 
of  a  mania.  It  is  not  three  months  since  I  began  to  believe  that  that 
single  thought  might  be  for  me.  Last  night  I  knew  that  I  was  right. 
It  was  she  who  prevented  my  returning  to  Beaumanoir.  Such  devo- 
tion is  rare.  I  say  again,  look  at  her,  doctor." 

Wondering  a  little,  Science  scanned  Devotion. 

The  woman  was  well  worth  looking  at  in  her  brown-skinned,  white- 


LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC.  363 

haired,  brave,  honest,  faithful  old  age.  A  prophetess  of  evil  had  she 
always  been,  but  not  of  the  order  of  Cassandra.  She  had  foreseen. 
She  had  not  chosen  to  foretell. 

Fernand  resumed  in  a  reckless  manner,  as  though  he  had  something 
to  do  that  hurt  him,  and  of  which  he  wished  to  be  rid : 

"  Would  you  believe  after  this,  doctor,  when  I  am  beaten  down  to 
the  earth,  that  she  refuses  to  speak  ?  She  talks  to  me  in  the  jargon  of 
my  childhood.  Last  night  she  reminded  me  of  a  book  containing  the 
story  of  a  leper.  That  is  her  way  of  telling  me  that  I  am  one.  There 
lies  the  book  on  the  table.  Have  you  ever  read  it  ?  Old  Maundrel 
held  a  wise  pen  in  his  hand.  He  reports  the  case  of  a  man  in  Syria, 
who  knew  himself  to  be  leprous  by  having  passed  unscorched  through 
flames.  Confianza  remembered  the  story,  but  I  wish  to  know  why 
she  recalled  it. — Nurse,  here  is  the  doctor.  He  is  a  friend,  and  a 
true  one.  In  his  presence,  tell  me  why  you  have  feared  for  me  through 
all  these  years." 

The  old  Indian  remained  silent.  Her  tongue  was  bound  by  a 
pledge  that  it  could  not  break.  The  dead  in  their  graves  forge  chains 
indissoluble. 

"  But  I  can  tell  you,  Fernand,"  said  the  doctor,  gravely,  "  what 
Confianza,  under  oath,  dares  not." 

"  You !     And  what— what  can  you  tell  ? " 

"  Your  mother  died  a  leper  !  " 

IV. 

The  small  world  about  La  Quinte  had  soon  a  tidbit  to  roll  around 
its  tongue  more  to  its  taste  than  even  that  delicious  morsel  from  Beau- 
manoir.  Workmen,  it  heard,  were  busy  building  a  cottage  under  the 
ancient  live  oak  that  was  old  when  Iberville's  ships  sailed  through 
the  waters  of  Manchac,  and  moss-crowned  when  simple  Acadiens  from 
the  Northern  ice,  camping  under  it,  broke  out  in  wild  enthusiasm 
over  its  knotted  knees  and  spreading  boughs,  while  their  children 
plucked  the  giant  by  his  frosty  beard,  and  shouted  gleefully  as  they 
crowned  themselves  with  the  mossy  theft.  The  same  oak  had,  for 
generations,  been  the  pride  of  the  country  round.  They  called  it 
lovingly  le  Pere  Chene,  the  Father  Oak.  Superstition  had  added  a 
special  charm  to  its  head,  grown  gray  in  the  circling  rings  of  a  thou- 
sand years.  Lovers'  vows,  pledged  under  it,  for  once  ceased  to  be  false, 
and  a  happy  marriage  never  failed,  it  was  fervently  believed,  to  follow 
the  kisses  for  which  the  old  tree  had  for  ages  stood  sponsor.  To  build 
a  cottage  under  the  Pere  Chene,  therefore,  was  a  violent  shock  given 
to  the  love,  the  pride,  the  superstition  of  the  entire  neighborhood. 


364  FICTION. 

But  what  could  love,  pride,  or  superstition  say  ?  The  tree  itself  was 
private  property  ;  the  old  gray  beard  stood  on  land  belonging  to  La 
Quinte.  It  was  quite  clear,  therefore,  that  the  owner  had  ordered  the 
erection  of  the  cottage,  and  that  he  had  a  right  to  do  so. 

Mademoiselle  de  Monplaisir  spoke  the  voice  of  a  critical  circle : 

"  Mafw,  tfest  bien  noble  de  la  part  de  M.  Torres.  He  wishes  to  be 
near  his  kin." 

There  was  always  a  sting  in  the  honey  vouchsafed  by  this  young 
lady  to  her  friends.  The  sting  in  this  particular  honey  was  that 
Leper- Land  began  within  half  a  league  below  the  lower  terminus  of 
La  Quinte. 

A  low-roofed,  broad-verandaed  cottage  soon  nestled  under  the  pro- 
tecting branches  of  the  old  tree.  The  roof  once  reached,  farm  wagons, 
filled  with  furniture,  stirred  up  the  white  dust  of  the  Bayou  highway. 
Then  came  carts  filled  with  books.  The  cottage  itself  was  only  a 
three  days'  wonder,  after  all.  Something  came  afterward,  that  was  to 
prove  a  plethoric,  full-mouthed,  nine  days'  talk.  After  the  last  cart 
had  deposited  its  burden,  the  workmen  reappeared.  They  came  in 
crowds.  In  an  amazingly  short  time,  a  great  whitewashed  brick  wall 
rose  high  enough  to  look  down  upon  the  cottage,  which  it  had  been 
built  to  screen.  It  loomed  up  full  thirty  feet  in  the  air,  stretching  in 
a  square  on  all  sides  of  the  giant  oak,  whose  head,  turbaned  in  mosses, 
could  be  seen  behind  it  from  the  road  and  from  boats  passing  swiftly 
on  the  Bayou.  There  was  nothing  cheerful  in  this  strange  pile.  In 
the  sunlight  it  looked  like  a  prison ;  in  the  moonlight,  like  a  grave- 
yard. The  Panteon  of  Bogota  is  not  more  ghost-like. 

The  wall  being  finished,  but  one  entrance  was  left  to  the  interior. 
This  was  at  the  lower  end,  to  the  rear,  where  a  strong  oak  door,  iron- 
bound,  challenged  the  way.  On  the  side  of  that  door  was  a  turn- 
window  in  the  wall,  through  which  could  be  passed  such  articles  as 
might  be  needed  for  the  dweller  within.  Close  to  that  window  and 
outside  of  the  wall  was  a  small  hut.  It  was  the  home  of  Confianza — 
martyr  to  the  child  of  her  love  in  his  weakness,  as  she  had  been  faith- 
ful to  him  in  his  young  strength  under  the  skies  of  Damascus  and  on 
the  shining  shores  of  the  Mediterranean. 

And  what  did  Society,  that  part  of  it  which  whispers  its  wisdom 
behind  summer  fans,  think  of  all  this  ?  It  only  sighed  prettily,  and 
itched  the  more  to  know  all.  Fernand's  story  was  an  exciting  one  so- 
far,  but  society  is  never  wholly  satisfied  unless  it  sees  the  green  curtain 
fall  on  a  tragedy  on  which  it  has  seen  it  rise.  For  the  rest,  it  had  been 
told  that  he  remained  shut  up  in  his  rooms  and  had  been  seen  by  no 
one  but  the  doctor  and  Confianza.  It  clamored,  however,  for  the  end. 
Somehow,  this  did  not  come  to  it  so  soon  as  expected.  It  was  very^ 


LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC.  365 

long  after  Society  had  retired,  so  to  speak,  from  the  boxes,  and  the 
lights  had  been  put  out,  that  it  heard  that  Fernand,  on  the  very  night 
of  the  day  when  the  strong  oak  door  was  hung  on  its  hinges,  had 
passed  through  it  alone.  Little  by  little  it  came  out,  that,  for  that 
particular  night,  an  order  had  been  given  to  all  the  slaves  of  La  Quinte, 
somewhat  in  the  fashion  of  that  borne  by  the  herald  of  Coventry, 

"     .     .     .    a  thousand  summers  back." 

The  old  Indian  had  taken  the  message  through  the  house  and  the 
quarters.  "  The  master  is  going,"  she  said,  "  to  leave  La  Quinte  to- 
night for  his  new  home.  He  is  very  sick  and  very  unhappy.  He 
knows  that  his  people  love  him,  and  he  begs  them  all  to  go  to  their 
cabins  early  to-night,  and  not  to  leave  them." 

In  the  old  story  of  Coventry  it  was  a  "  shameless  noon  "  that,  from 
its  hundred  towers,  clanged  the  triumph  of  a  peerless  sacrifice.  In 
the  new  one,  it  was  a  pitying  midnight  which,  from  its  hundred  shad- 
ows, shrouded  the  sacrifice  of  a  noble  life.  La  Quinte,  fertile  as  she 
was  in  sons  and  daughters,  had  not  bred  a  "  Peeping  Tom "  among 
them  all ;  and  by  nine  o'clock  there  was  not  one  of  her  children  who 
was  not  abed. 

Fernand  had  died  to  the  world.  So  the  world,  true  to  its  tradi- 
tions, avenged  itself  by  calling  his  retreat  Le  Tombeau  Blanc,  a 
ghoulish  fancy,  which  had  received  its  inspiration  from  a  remark 
accredited  to  Mme.  Diane  Dragon  (nee  Monplaisir),  while  daintily 
sipping  her  orgeat,  that,  "  since  M.  Torres  has  chosen  to  bury  himself 
alive,  his  home  is  well  called  The  White  Tomb."  For  the  rest,  Society 
had  no  time  for  a  tragic  tale  already  old.  Autumn  had  laughed  with 
Summer  over  the  richness  of  their  common  harvest.  Winter,  which 
had  passed  in  storm  over  the  parish,  had  found  time — there  is  a  deal 
of  unrecorded  kindly  blood  in  these  stern  old  seasons — to  press  a  part- 
ing kiss  upon  Spring's  virgin  lips,  and  to  whisper :  "  Be  good,  my 
daughter,  and  spare  not  thy  sweetest  blossoms."  It  scarcely  seemed 
cause  for  wonder,  then,  that  Society  should  have  forgotten  the  hermit 
as  completely  as  though  he  lay,  indeed,  stretched  cold  and  dreamless 
in  his  last  bed. 

As  to  the  leper's  actual  condition,  even  the  old  Indian  knew  but 
little.  He  had  locked  the  gate  behind  him  and  kept  the  key  with 
him  in  his  cottage.  The  turn-window  remained  the  only  medium  of 
communication  between  them.  Before  burying  himself,  Fernand  had 
said  to  her :  "  You  know  that  I  am  very  sick ;  what  is  worse,  I  am 
hopeless.  My  life  may  be  short  or  long.  Whether  long  or  short,  I 
am  forced  to  suffer.  I  wish  to  die,  but  it  is  my  duty  to  live.  Cook 
my  meals  and  put  them  twice  a  day  in  the  turn-window.  I  shall  call 


366  FICTION. 

for  them  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  then  again  at  four  in  the 
afternoon."  That  was  all  which  had  passed  between  the  two.  It 
seemed  a  sorry  exhibit  enough,  this  gratitude  smothered  in  the  fumes 
of  a  gastronomic  edict.  But  the  true  old  woman  took  it  all  to  herself, 
and  that  night,  with  her  worn  rosary  in  hand,  she  broke  into  an  extra 
plea  of  Paternosters  and  Ave  Marias. 

In  the  meantime,  and  in  his  bitter  solitude,  shuddering  and  sick  at 
heart,  Fernand  would  turn  from  his  mournful  future  to  the  compensa- 
tion which  must  be  his  so  long  as  his  skilful  hands  could  win  music 
from  the  strings  of  his  Cremona.  This  instrument  was  a  gift  to  him, 
when  a  lad,  from  Duffeyte,  that  brilliant  tenor  whose  sweet  notes  had 
entranced  Creoledom  somewhere  in  the  '40's.  His  power  over  his  gift 
was  not  unworthy  of  the  donor.  His  soul  was  alive  with  music  as  a 
heated  forge  is  with  flame.  Compositions  of  the  great  masters 
weighted  his  music-rack ;  but  memories  of  Verdi  and  Donizetti,  and 
melodies  of  Liszt  and  Strauss  were  with  him,  and  through  the  chords 
of  his  Cremona,  with  an  almost  human  sympatl^,  spoke  tenderly  and 
consolingly  to  the  leper's  heart.  The  cool  and  quiet  of  midnight  Avere 
wont  to  fall  like  a  dream  of  peace  upon  his  tortured  soul.  He  had 
cried  with  Themistocles,  "  Give  me  the  art  of  oblivion !  "  But  the 
unpitying  sun  was  not  his  friend.  Its  torrid  glare  already  revealed 
that  fatal  whiteness  which  separated  him  from  his  fellows.  He  felt 
that,  for  him,  the  moonlight  was  better  than  the  sunlight ;  and  the 
night's  black  mantle  friendlier  than  the  day's  blazing  shield.  In  his 
isolation,  he  learned,  too,  to  acknowledge  a  comradeship,  during  the 
short  spring  and  long  summer  months,  with  the  whippoorwill,  that 
sad  brown  bird  of  the  cypriere,  which,  shunning  the  haunts  of  happier 
men,  had  been  won  by  the  mystic  shadows  and  unbroken  silence  within 
the  wall,  and  had  come  to  grieve  with  him  through  moonlit  nights, 
coyly  hidden,  but  fearless,  among  the  leaves  of  the  ancient  oak. 

For  in  the  meantime,  Dr.  Tousage's  judgment  had  been  verified. 

Fernand's  leprosy  was  already  developed  when  he  fought  the  flames 
at  Beaumanoir.  But  when  Spring  came,  in  memory  of  her  agreement 
with  Father  Winter  to  drop  blossoms  on  the  trees  and  to  fill  the 
black  earth  with  flowers,  the  second  stage  was  already  reached.  It 
was  to  the  credit  of  the  doctor's  sincere  friendship  that  not  a  whisper 
of  this  was  breathed  beyond  the  old  woman's  hut.  But  the  fight 
was  held  within  the  wall  and  under  Pere  Chene,  all  the  while.  The 
old  physician's  visits  were  for  a  time  regular.  Then,  all  at  once,  his 
knock  ceased  to  be  heard  at  the  oak  door.  Something  had  taken 
place  between  the  two — a  quarrel,  everybody  said.  Oh,  no !  not  that ; 
only  a  bit  of  truth  from  Science,  told  in  a  broken  voice,  and  with  great 
tears  streaming  down  from  under  the  gold  spectacles  of  the  leech : 


LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC.  367 

"  I  can  no  longer  hope  to  do  you  good,  Fernand,  and  I  may  pos- 
sibly injure  others  by  my  visits.  The  physician  does  not  belong  to 
himself.  Your  disease,  always  incurable,  has  within  the  last  six 
months  become  practically  contagious.  God  bless  you,  my  son,  and 
give  you  courage  to  bear  unto  the  end." 

This  was,  for  Fernand,  a  dismissal  that  had  long  been  foreseen. 
There  was  death  in  his  heart  already,  and  all  that  he  asked  was  that 
he  might  indeed  cease  to  live,  and  be  at  rest  forever.  But  of  what  he 
suffered,  and  of  the  storm  that,  raging  in  him,  broke  out  in  bitter  rain, 
all  this  the  great  wall  hid,  as  a  new  and  sadder  secret,  among  the 
branches  of  its  monster  oak. 

When  Dr.  Tousage  left  him,  Fernand  was  fighting  with  the  second  - 
stage  of  his  disease.  The  arbutus-like  pink  of  his  complexion  had 
faded  out.  He  had  become  a  "  leper  white  as  snow."  He  saw  before 
him  a  Calvary  on  whose  vid  dolorosa  he  could  hope  to  meet  no  Cyre- 
nian  to  bear  his  cross.  He  found  himself  thinking  of  a  time  when  the 
white  skin  would  change  into  a  coarse  yellow ;  when  deep  into  its  sur- 
face a  growth  of  tubercles  would  fatten  in  ulcerous  corruption ;  when 
the  hand  that  had  grown  so  warm  in  love  might  lose  the  use  of  its 
shapely  fingers ;  and  when  even  the  face  hallowed  by  the  first  and  last 
kiss  of  Blanche,  might,  if  seen  in  its  awful  disfigurement,  come  to 
frighten  timid  women  in  mother's  labor.  He  knew  himself  to  be  like 
another  Vivenzio  in  the  castle  of  Tolfi.  His  own  life,  in  its  decaying 
physical  form,  measured  for  him  as  surely  the  year-posts  to  death  as 
the  lessening  windows  of  his  iron  shroud  had  for  the  Italian. 

Behind  his  wall,  perhaps  in  a  bitter  spirit,  perhaps  in  resignation^ 
he  had  gauged  the  world  and  believed  it  wanting  in  remembrance. 
But  he  was  not  forgotten.  Old  Confianza,  at  his  window,  sat  day  and 
night,  as  silently  and  faithfully  watching  as  Mordecai  at  the  Persian's, 
gate.  And  there  were  others.  In  those  dark  hours  dear  to  him,  there 
were  passers-by  along  the  bayou-road.  These  were  men  and  women 
who  had  learned  to  make  that  road  a  Mecca,  because  they  had  loved 
the  kindly  man  now  forced  to  live  a  pariah. 

The  road  seemed  haunted  with  ghosts. 

For,  as  the  darkness  fell  upon  bayou  and  swamp,  shadows  would 
come  stepping  softly  out  of  it  to  mass  a  moment  in  fearful  silence  in 
front  of  Le  Tombeau  Blanc ;  to  point  out,  each  to  his  neighbor,  the 
great  ghostly  wall,  and  to  raise  their  black  hands  in  whispered  bless- 
ing over  it ;  and  then,  as  their  creeping-off  would  drop  into  a  half -trot, 
they  would  break  out  into  a  wild  hymn,  which,  beginning  soft  and 
tremulous,  would  grow  into  loudness,  drowning  the  whippoorwill's 
plaint,  and  filling  the  woods  with  the  presence  of  an  uncultured  but 
mighty  miserere. 


368  FICTION. 

Following  these  ghosts,  but  avoiding  always  to  meet  them,  would 
come  others.  These  would  creep  from  the  forest  depths  lower  down, 
stand  for  a  longer  time  than  the  rest  staring  at  the  wall ;  would  raise 
their  hands,  too,  in  silent  benediction,  and,  in  their  turn,  retire  as 
noiselessly  as  the  shadows  that  they  were.  Lepers  in  body,  the  souls  of 
these  ghosts  were  clean.  For  out  of  the  agony  that  was  Selfishness 
had  bloomed  the  flower  that  was  Gratitude. 

But,  after  a  time,  these  loving  ghosts  left  the  bayou-road  to  its 
loneliness.  Then  a  ghost,  gaunt  and  tall,  assuming  a  woman's  shape, 
would  step  out  into  the  road  and  stand,  looking  up  with  patient  sad- 
ness. This  shape  would  appear  so  suddenly  after  the  lepers'  flitting 
that  it  was  clear  it  had  been  lying  in  wait. 

Then  a  special  phantom,  also  a  woman,  with  strange  black  robes 
floating  around  her,  would  glide  quickly  in  front  of  the  wall,  stop, 
clasp  its  hands  wildly,  with  face  upturned  toward  it,  as  though  in  sup- 
plication ;  lower  its  head,  with  hands  still  clasped,  into  the  dust  of  the 
road,  to  pray  and  weep,  and  weep  and  pray  again. 

After  a  while,  the  first  ghost  would  draw  near,  gently  touch  the 
shoulder  of  the  kneeling  figure,  and  together  both  phantoms  would 
become  lost  in  the  deeper  shadows  of  Confianza's  hut. 

Of  all  these  ghosts  Fernand  knew  nothing. 

Fernand  was  a  prisoner  for  life.  But  the  world  outside  had  not, 
for  him  or  his  wall,  ceased  to  move.  Action  had  clutched  the  scab- 
bard from  Argument,  and  with  its  right  hand  drawn  the  blade.  Of 
the  war  that  had  drenched  the  land  in  blood,  he  had  heard  but  once. 
Men  in  blue  and  men  in  gray  had  marched  past  his  wall,  awed  at  its 
height,  marvelling  at  its  quaintness,  wondering  at  its  use.  Then, 
learning  its  tragic  story,  the  brave  men  had  turned,  somehow,  a  free 
and  easy  route-step  into  something  suspiciously  like  a  double-quick. 
Confianza  herself  was  mute.  A  curt  order  for  silence,  given  by  Fer- 
nand in  the  beginning  of  his  malady,  had  been  loyally  obeyed  by  the 
old  Indian ;  and  by  long  prohibition,  no  copy  of  the  Picayune  had 
come  to  tell  him  that  Mars,  sword  in  hand,  was  sweeping  over  fields 
of  sugar,  corn,  and  cotton.  One  day — the  date  thereof  is  fixed  in  the 
war  annals,  not  in  these  pages — a  single  boom  was  heard  under  the 
branches  of  le  Pere  Chene.  Faintly  but  distinctly,  the  boom  soon 
came  to  Fernand's  ear — fast,  furious,  continuous.  Evidently  a  distant 
cannonade.  He  could  not  hear  the  wild  yell,  nor  the  great  answering 
shout  that  kept  time  to  its  martial  challenge.  But  Battle  has  a  voice 
of  its  own,  and  that  spoke  in  the  heavy  guns  of  Labadieville. 

"  What  is  that,  Confianza  ? "  came  hoarsely  shouted  from  the  turn- 
window. 

"  Son  las  tropas,  Senor" 


LE  TOMBEAU  BLANC.  369 

"  Troops !  men  playing  at  soldiers,  you  mean." 

"  Oh,  no,  hijo  mio  !  Dey  de  troops  of  the  Nort  and  de  Sout.  Dey 
fight  demselves  togeder.  Ya  ees  old  la  guerra." 

Then,  with  ears  alert  and  eyes  distended,  she  raised  herself  to  listen 
—listening  not  to  the  guns,  but  to  a  cry  that  wailed  through  the 
silence — a  cry  harsh,  sinister,  discordant,  horrible — a  cry  that  was  the 
roar  of  a  wild  beast  hunted  to  death  in  the  jungle. 

"  My  God !  my  God !  why  cannot  I  find  death  among  the  fighters 
yonder  ? " 

This  was  an  episode— not  the  least  ghastly  among  the  episodes  of 
that  sorrowful  time. 

Years  had  passed  since  then.  The  leper  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
the  day  when  he  had  heard  from  within  Le  Tombeau  Blanc  the  guns 
of  Labadieville.  After  all,  it  was  time  that  he  should  do  so.  Already 
he  thought  of  himself  as  a  creature  like  Moore's  "  bloodless  ghost," 
speculating  bitterly  on  the  day,  sure  to  dawn,  when,  chained  to  his  bed, 
he  would  come  to  sit  by  his 

"    .     .     .     own  pale  corpse,  watching  it." 

Bear  in  mind  that  it  was  through  all  these  years  from  that  night 
at  Beaumanoir,  through  peaceful  times,  through  quiet  harvests,  through 
gathering  clouds,  through  deep  thunderings,  through  lightning  burst- 
ing from  those  clouds,  through  a  great  war,  through  a  noble  effort, 
through  a  mighty  liberation,  through  a  peace  that  was  not  a  calm  and 
a  calm  that  became  peace,  that  Fernand  had  changed  from  the  figure 
of  a  perfect  manhood  to  what  he  then  was.  On  the  whole,  his  dread 
disease  had  been  merciful  to  him.  The  muscles,  once  firm  as  Samson's, 
had  long  since  betrayed  their  strength  into  eating  ulcers.  But  Gan- 
grene— Death's  grimmest  lieutenant — still  refrained  from  striking.  It 
hovered  with  its  scythe  over  the  feet,  filled  with  a  growth  of  pustules. 
It  threatened  those  hands  once  so  strong,  so  soft,  as  instinct  with 
music  as  with  daring ;  but  ten  fingers  still  remained  to  be  counted 
between  them.  His  voice  had  become  rauque  and  broken;  but  the 
hair,  beard,  and  eye-brows,  although  prematurely  white,  had  not  yet 
dropped  from  their  follicles.  His  features  were  enlarged,  had  turned 
to  ghastly  grotesqueness,  but  so  far  they  had  escaped  the  teredo-like 
borings  of  leprosy.  With  all  this,  he  felt  himself  growing  Aveaker  day 
by  day.  He  had  ceased  to  use  Dr.  Tousage's  medicines,  left  at  inter- 
vals on  his  window.  He  could  have  no  faith  whatsoever  in  the  phy- 
sician who  had  none  in  himself,  and  who  had  told  him  frankly : 
"  Palliatives,  not  remedies,  Fernand,  these  are  all  I  can  promise  you." 
But  even  these  were  now  beyond  his  reach — the  good  old  doctor  had 
written  his  last  prescription. 
24 


370  FICTION. 

Little  by  little,  Fernand  yielded  his  consolations.  A  fine  dust, 
settling  around  the  strings  of  Duffeyte's  Cremona,  had  clogged  their 
melody.  Of  the  wild-beast-like,  circular  paths  around  and  about  the 
Tombeau,  no  sign  remained.  The  grass  had  grown  thick  over  them,  as 
well  as  over  that  which,  night  after  night,  had  so  long  been  his  road 
in  the  old  days,  to  the  lowest  rung  of  a  ladder  by  which  he  had  reached 
the  summit  of  the  great  solemn  wall,  and  where,  condemned  like  Moses 
on  Pisgah's  height,  he  would  direct  yearning  glances  "  westward  and 
northward,  and  southward  and  eastward,"  toward  the  black  waters  of 
the  bayou  swirling  by  in  the  darkness,  and  the  shadowy  outlines  of 
fertile  fields,  once  his  own,  and  of  dark  forests  which  had  been  his 
hunting-ground  as  boy  and  man. 

*  *  *  *  •&  #  •         #  * 

There  is  now  but  one  path  in  the  Tonibeau  Blanc.  It  was  the 
leper's  first,  as  it  will  be  his  last  path — the  walk  which  leads  from  the 
cottage  to  the  turn-window,  which  holds,  each  morning  and  afternoon, 
his  food  and  drink. 

There  are  two  parts  fairly  mixed  in  our  humanity  when  in  extrem- 
ity. One  is  animal ;  the  other,  spiritual.  The  two  cannot  live  apart, 
so  long  as  the  body  itself  holds  together.  Fernand  feels  this  keenly. 
He  seeks  his  .food,  as  a  beast,  maimed  in  the  fierce  wars  of  its  kind, 
might  crawl  to  seek  it — by  habit.  But  unlike  the  beast,  his  spirit, 
which  stands  for  his  pleasures,  is  confined  to  his  cottage,  or,  in  fair 
sunny  weather,  to  his  seat  under  the  Father  Oak.  He  can  no  longer 
find  solace  in  his  Cremona.  He  can  no  longer  see  to  read.  He  can 
only — think,  think,  think !  He  totters,  while  he  keeps  back  the  groans, 
as  he  now  makes  the  daily  trips  for  food.  He  remembers  how,  years, 
years  ago,  he  had  firmly  planted  his  feet  on  that  well-beaten  path, 
hopeless  then,  but  self -poised.  Now,  he  can  only  creep  painfully  along 
it,  stopping  at  intervals  to  gasp,  taking  a  half-hour  where  once  the 
half-minute  had  sufficed.  Then,  he  had  clutched  his  food  with  the 
appetite  which  young  manhood  gives,  even  when  it  knows  itself 
doomed  to  lingering  disease.  Now,  he  puts  his  hand  up  for  it  with 
loathing,  and  turns  aside  with  a  shudder  when  he  draws  it  down. 

That  terrible  path !  This  is  what  he  now  most  fears.  His  hands 
are  not  of  the  strongest  for  the  carrying  of  food,  none  of  the  safest  for 
bearing  a  full  pitcher.  For  over  their  swollen  surface  the  skin  has 
thickened  and  stretched  tight  and  hard  like  a  drum's  head.  His  fingers 
are  gradually  turning  within  like  a  harpy's  claws.  He  is  far  from  sure 
of  them.  One  day  he  doubts  whether  they  will  be  able  to  take  the 
food  without  dropping  it.  The  next  day  he  fears  that  they  cannot 
carry  drink  without  spilling  it.  The  sorrowful  truth  is  that  he  is 
growing  afraid  of  himself.  He  trembles  as  he  looks  down  at  his 


LE   TOMBEAU  BLANC.  371 

pustuled  feet,  now  always  bare.  At  times  he  holds  before  his  eves  in 
the  sunlight  his  two  yellow  swollen  hands  with  their  curved  fingers. 
Then,  indeed,  he  breaks  out  into  sudden  despair ;  he  bows  his  head 
upon  those  fingers,  blotting  out  the  tell-tale  sun,  while  through  them 
trickle  the  scalding  scanty  tears  which  lepers  weep. 

He  knows  that  he  is  now  far  in  the  last  stage  of  his  disease  ;  that 
the  end  of  all  this  must  be  impotence.  The  certainty  of  his  fate 
haunts  him  like  a  spectre.  He  has  marked  with  a  ?  that  unknown  day, 
soon  to  come,  when  he  shall  be  too  weak  to  leave  his  room.  One  way 
or  other,  he  feels  that  that  day,  when  it  does  come,  must  break  the 
self-will  which  has  grown  almost  marble  under  the  Pere  Chene.  The 
Church  has  taught  him  that  suicide  is  a  crime.  Though  in  a  tomb, 
whence  he  can  neither  see  the  blaze  of  altar-candles,  nor  hear  the 
chimes  in  steeple-bells,  he  believes  it  from  his  soul  to  be  one.  He  is 
utterly  alone  in  these  days.  Even  Nature,  the  tried  ally  of  solitary 
man,  has  neglected,  if  it  have  not  altogether  forgotten  him.  For 
years,  that  wizard  of  the  forest,  the  mocking-bird,  has  cheered  him 
with  its  "  lyric  bursts  "  of  unmatched  melody.  But,  true  to  its  own 
instincts,  it  has  set  up  its  throne  in  the  thickets  around  Confianza's  hut. 
Outside  of,  not  within,  the  gloomy  wall  is  where  the  singer  chooses 
to  reign  ;  and  there  it  reigns,  day  and  night,  content  if  it  only  knows 
that  the  leper  within  gains  from  its  wondrous  notes  a  single  hope. 
Fernand  does  not  doubt  his  consoler,  I  think ;  or,  if  he  do,  his  is  only 
the  faint  shadow  of  a  fainter  doubt.  Both  were  bred  in  the  land  of  the 
orange  and  the  sugar-cane.  In  the  man's  philosophy,  born  of  his  old 
nurse's  lullabies,  a  certain  sorcery  attaches  to  this  wondrous  bird  of 
wondrous  song.  As  he  listens  in  his  agony  to  its  joyous  bursts,  he  so 
bound,  it  so  free,  he  murmurs  half  unconsciously,  in  the  wild  words  of 
an  old  Creole  hymn  of  Nature,  caught  breathing  from  her  by  Pere 
Rouquette : 

"  Ah,  mokeur  !     Ah,  mokeur  shanteur  ! 

Ah,  ah  !  to  gagnin  giab  dan  kor  ! 
To  gagniii  tro  1'espri,  mokeur. 

M6,  shantg  :  in'a  koutg  ankor  ! "  * 

Thus,  in  its  own  fashion,  is  the  gray  maestro  faithful  to  him.  But 
not  so  his  old  shy  comrade,  the  whippoorwill,  which  has  long  since 
left  the  tree  that,  in  its  depths,  it  haunted,  and  the  master  whom,  in 
its  coyness,  it  had  seemed  to  love.  The  cypriere  has  sent  none  other 

*  Ah,  mocking-bird  !    Ah,  mocking  songster  ! 
Ah,  thou  hast  the  devil  in  thy  heart ! 
Thou  hast  too  much  wit,  mocking-bird. 
But  sing  on  ;  I  must  listen — once  more  ! 


372  FICTION. 

of  its  songsters ;  and  even  the  little  twittering  birds,  that  dote  on  free- 
dom and  space  and  glitter  and  company,  avoid  the  mournful  Father 
Oak  as  though  he  were  a  plague.  Or,  perhaps,  these  tiny  creatures 
have  finer  senses  than  man,  and  know  of  the  plague  that  sits  and 
ponders,  a  breathing  corpse,  under  the  grand  old  tree. 

Here  it  is  that  Fernand  passes  hours  in  figuring  over  and  over 
again  what  will  come  of  the  inevitable  invasion.  Confianza  must,  of 
course,  be  admitted.  And  Blanche  \  Oh,  would  that  she  could !  But 
how  foolish  all  this  is,  none  knows  so  well  as  he.  He  would  not  let  his 
darling  in,  no !  not  were  she  even  to  knock  at  the  gate  and  ask  that  it 
be  opened  unto  her.  Nor  can  Blanche — but  I  had  forgotten,  there  is 
no  longer  a  Blanche. 

There  is  a  S&ur  Angelique  who  once  bore  her  name — a  fair  and 
sinless  woman  dedicated  to  God,  of  whom  her  black-robed  sisters  speak 
with  love  and  pride.  Xothing  of  all  this  passes  into  the  Tombeau 
Blanc.  Fernand  has  not  forgotten  Blanche,  but  he  has  no  knowledge 
of  S<£ur  Angelique.  He  is  ever  intent  upon  the  old  problems  that  vex 
his  waning  life.  The  great  iron-bound  door,  so  long  closed,  must  soon 
turn  upon  its  rusty  hinges.  Who  will  dare  pass  the  gate  (  Who  will, 
having  once  passed  it,  dare  advance  to  confront  the  odor  of  the  char- 
nel-house which  fills  the  square,  and  which  seems  to  have  blasted  the 
green  old  age  of  le  Pere  Chene  f  Who  ? 

The  world  i     Xo ! 

His  old  doctor  i    Xo ! 

His  former  slaves  ?     No ! 

Delegates  from  Leper-Land  i    Yes ! 

Forgetfulness  forbids  the  first ;  death,  the  second ;  superstition  and 
"  exodus,"  the  third ;  brotherhood  admits  the  last. 

At  this  prospect,  leper  as  he  is,  he  shudders. 

These  fancies  fill  his  dark  hours.  He  keeps  his  failing  eyes  fastened 
wearily  upon  his  narrow  domain.  The  grass  is  growing  thick  and 
green  over  all  the  paths  which  he  once  circled  in  his  madness.  It  is 
with  eager  longing  he  awaits  the  day  when  it  shall  spring  up  as  thick 
and  green  around  and  over  his  last  walk. 

"  It  took  years  to  cover  those,"  he  murmurs  hoarsely.  "  My  God ! 
how  manv  weeks  will  it  be  before  this  last  one  is  covered  ? " 


December  25,  187-.     A  letter  just  received  from  my  friend,  the 
Mayor  of  Thibodaux,  contains  this  simple  announcement : 
"Death,  the  Consoler,  IMS  at  last  come  to  Femand" 


THE  BANQUET. 

BY    ALFRED    MERCIER. 

[ALFKED  MEBCIER  was  born  at  McDonogh,  La.,  June  3,  1816.  In  his  fourteenth 
year  he  was  sent  to  France  to  be  educated.  In  1842  he  published,  at  Paris,  a  volume 
of  poems,  the  principal  of  which  were  La  Rose  de  Smyrne,  and  L'Ermite  de  Niagara, 
which  were  highly  praised  in  the  Revue  de  Paris.  He  devoted  the  next  few  years] 
during  extensive  travels  in  Europe,  to  the  philosophic  study  of  men  and  things.  In 
1848  he  wrote  a  romance  for  La  Rfforme,  &  prominent  literary  journal  of  the  day.  On 
the  morning  that  the  first  feuilleton  was  to  appear,  the  commune  broke  into  the  office 
and  "pied  "  the  forms.  This  was  a  blow  to  the  young  author.  Originally  intended 
for  the  bar,  his  tastes  led  him  into  literature  ;  but  republican  France  making  small 
account  of  letters,  he  suddenly  resolved  to  study  medicine.  After  he  was  graduated  in 
that  science,  he  practised  his  profession  for  three  years  in  New  Orleans.  In  1859  he 
returned  to  France,  remaining  there  until  the  close  of  our  civil  war,  when  he  finally 
returned  to  New  Orleans.  His  works  of  fiction  include  Le  Fou  de  Palerme  (1873); 
La  Fille  du  Pretre  (1877);  L' Habitation  St.  Tbars  (1881);  Lidia  (1888);  and  Johnefle 
(1891).  Dr.  Mercier  possesses  a  delicate  fancy,  and  a  style  at  once  virile  and  pictur- 
esque. 


XIGHT  was  approaching. 

A  laborer,  heavily  laden,  was  slowly  ascending  a  mountain ;  ex- 
hausted by  the  weight  he  carried,  he  sat  upon  a  rock  near  the  road, 
and  sighing  deeply,  said  : 

"  How  unfortunate  I  am !  After  so  many  years  of  relentless  toil, 
I  can  scarcely  provide  the  necessaries  of  life  for  my  family.  I  know 
I  am  strong  still;  but  I  am  continually  tormented  by  the  fear  of 
what  the  future  has  in  store  for  us ;  and  the  thought  that  I  may  die, 
leaving  my  wife  and  children  penniless,  makes  me  shudder.  That  fear 
tortures  me,  and  poisons  the  very  well-spring  of  my  happiness." 

Such  were  the  laborers  lamentations. 

He  bent  his  head  to  his  chest ;  the  fever  of  weariness  seized*  him. 
and  he  fell  half-asleep,  while  his  thoughts  unconsciously  wandered  in 
the  indefinite  land  of  dreams. 

He  felt  himself  uplifted  and  transported  far  away. 

Suddenly  he  was  seated  at  an  immense  banquet,  in  a  hall  dazzling 
with  lights  and  gold.  The  table,  surrounded  by  guests,  extended 
itself  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  of  the  sun,  and  there  he  saw 
people  of  every  description  ;  men  and  women,  young  and  old,  children, 
kings  and  queens,  ferocious-looking  soldiers,  diplomats  with  astute 


374  FICTION. 

smiles,  beggars  in  rags,  sailors,  priests,  pale  nuns,  laborers,  courtiers, 
and  suspicious-looking  gentry  ;  in  short,  people  from  every  tribe, 
race,  and  country ;  some  nearly  naked,  others  covered  with  silks  and 
precious  stones. 

Looking  at  his  right,  the  dreamer  recognized  his  wife  and  son ;  at 
his  left  were  his  daughters,  surrounded  by  young  men  who  addressed 
them  in  pure  and  loving  language. 

Waiters,  crowned  with  myrtles  and  roses,  went  from  one  guest  to 
the  other,  giving  to  each  a  drink  that  not  only  was  palatable,  but 
also  had  the  property  of  reviving. 

Opposite  the  laborer  one  could  see  a  large  gallery,  on  the  top  of 
which  stairs  of  black  marble  rested,  and  their  upper  portions  were 
lost  in  the  skies. 

II. 

From  the  summit  of  the  stairs  came  a  Spectre  that  was  veiled  and 
robed  in  white. 

And  the  Spectre,  approaching  a  king  who  was  speaking  to  his 
ministers  about  his  plans  of  war,  touched  him  with  the  tip  of  its 
fingers. 

The  king  rose,  went  on  the  gallery,  ascended  the  stairs,  and  re- 
turned not. 

And  the  Spectre  touched  two  lovers  in  the  act  of  taking  their 
betrothal  kiss. 

The  lovers  left  the  table  and  disappeared  forever. 

A  miser  had  just  won  an  enormous  amount  of  gold,  and  knew  not 
how  to  take  it  aU  with  him ;  the  Spectre  stopped  and  made  a  sign  to 
him. 

Astonished  and  trembling,  the  miser  obeyed.  As  he  walked,  his 
gold  dropped  from  his  pockets  to  the  resounding  floor;  he  would 
have  stopped,  but  could  not,  and  vanished  like  a  vapor  that  leaves 
naught  to  detect  it. 

Then  the  Spectre  with  its  right  hand  drew  a  great  circle  around  a 
group  of  happy  children,  who  were  listening  to  the  tales  of  an  octo- 
genarian. 

The  aged  man  directed  his  steps  towards  the  mysterious  hall ;  the 
children  followed  playfully. 

A  mathematician  of  universal  renown  was  calculating  the  chances 
of  the  future  and  promising  a  long,  career  to  several  capitalists,  who 
wondered  at  his  knowledge ;  he  did  not  heed  an  old  hag,  who  also 
wanted  to  know  how  long  she  had  to  live. 

Looking  around  suddenly,  as  if  they  heard  some  one  call  them,  the 
capitalists  saw  the  Spectre  shaking  its  head  in  the  affirmative. 


THE  BANQUET.  375 

Surprised  and  frightened,  they  left  the  table,  and  their  friends 
Avaited  for  them  in  vain. 

Two  young  men  rose,  each  with  a  cup  in  his  hand.  Joy  and  love 
were  depicted  on  the  one's  face ;  the  other  looked  very  sad. 

Said  the  former :  "  Let  us  enjoy  life  !  Here's  to  my  mistress— and 
to  the  happy  days  we  have  before  us ! " 

Said  the  latter :  "  Happiness  is  a  lie ;  the  spring  of  my  life  has 
brought  me  but  bitter  delusions.  I  empty  this  cup  as  a  farewell  to 
every  vain  hope !  " 

But  the  youths  did  not  have  time  to  drink  ;  the  cups  slipped  from 
their  fingers  without  the  loss  of  a  single  drop  of  wine ;  and  suspended 
in  the  air,  like  feathers  carried  by  the  wind,  were  wafted  towards  the 
hall.  The  Spectre  commanded  the  two  young  men  to  follow,  and 
they  departed,  as  the  others  had  previously  done,  forever. 

III. 

The  laborer  became  frightened.  Wildly  clasping  his  arms  around 
his  wife  and  children,  he  pressed  them  to  his  heart. 

Xew  guests  took  the  place  of  departed  ones.  The  meats  and 
drinks  were  always  renewed,  and  the  banquet  always  continued. 

Time  fled  rapidly,  and  the  dreamer's  hair  had  whitened.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  reached  life's  last  degree,  and  that  his  daughters, 
who  had  borne  children  several  times,  smiled  on  him ;  while  his  aged 
wife  leaned  on  her  grandson's  arm. 

And  when  the  Spectre  approached  him  at  last,  he  fearlessly  rose 
and  said : 

"  I  am  ready.  Now  I  understand  what  is  meant.  The  banquet 
is  Life ;  and  thou  art  Fate's  messenger,  that  calls  each  of  us  at  his 
turn.  We  must  neither  rely  on,  nor  despair  of,  the  morrow.  Young 
or  old,  happy  or  unhappy,  we  all  obey  thy  mandates  ;  and  man  should 
live  in  peace  with  himself,  and  take  calmly  what  every  day  brings. 

"  Hail  to  thee,  O  Death !  Thou  commandest  that  I  leave  this 
banquet,  which  I  have  attended  longer  than  I  should  have  expected. 
I  go  cheerfully.  I  have  carried  my  burden  without  complaint,  and  I 
deposit  it  without  regret." 

IY. 

The  sleeper  opened  his  eyes  and  stood  up.  His  courage  was 
revived  by  what  he  had  seen.  He  resumed  his  ascent  of  the  moun- 
tain, and,  by  the  sweet  light  of  the  stars,  reached  his  modest  home, 
where  his  wife  and  children  awaited  him  for  the  evening  meal. 

Translated  from  the  French. 


THE  DEVOTION   OF  MAKC^LITE.* 

BY    GRACE    KING. 

[GRACE  ELIZABETH  KING,  novelist  and  historian,  the  daughter  of  the  distinguished 
Louisiana  lawyer,  the  late  William  W.  King,  is  a  native  of  New  Orleans.  She  was 
educated,  for  the  most  part,  in  the  Creole  schools  of  her  native  city,  where  she  has 
always  been  domiciled.  Speaking  of  her  ability  as  a  novelist,  Mr.  Coleman,  the  well- 
known  critic,  says  :  "There  is  in  her  delineation  of  character  no  element  of  exaggera- 
tion, but  simply  a  faithful  presentation  of  the  impulsive  Southern  temperament  instinct 
with  the  warmth  of  the  Southern  sun."  She  is  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  various 
Northern  magazines,  and  is  the  author  of  Bonne  Maman,  a  novelette  (1886);  Monsieur 
Motte,  a  novel  (1888);  Earthlings,  a  novel  (1889);  and  Bienville,  a  life  of  the  first 
Governor  of  Louisiana  (1892).  She  is  also  the  joint  author,  with  Professor  John  R. 
Ficklen,  of  A  History  of  Louisiana  (1893).] 

THE  Externes  were  radiant  in  toilettes  unmarred  by  accident  or 
omission ;  the  flattering  compliments  of  their  mirrors  at  home  had 
turned  their  heads  in  the  direction  of  perfect  self-content.  Kesigna- 
tion  was  the  only  equivalent  the  unfortunate  Internes  could  offer  in 
extenuation  of  the  unfinished  appearance  of  their  heads. 

"  Mais,  dis  done,  chere,  what  is  the  matter  with  your  hair  ? " 

"  Marcelite  did  not  come." 

"  Why,  doudouce,  how  could  you  allow  your  hair  to  be  combed 
that  way  ? " 

"  Marcelite  did  not  come." 

"  Cherie,  I  think  your  hair  is  curled  a  little  tight  this  evening." 

"  I  should  think  so  ;  that  diable  Marcelite  did  not  come." 

"  Man  Dieu,  look  at  Madame  Joubert  d  la  sauvagesse  !  " 

"  And  Madame  d  la  grand'maman !  " 

"  Marcelite  did  not  come,  you  see." 

Not  only  was  the  room  filled,  but  an  eager  audience  crowded  the 
yard  and  peeped  in  through  the  windows.  The  stairways,  of  course, 
were  filled  with  the  colored  servants,  an  enthusiastic,  irrepressible 
claque.  When  it  was  all  over,  and  the  last  bis  and  encore  had  subsided, 
row  after  row  of  girls  was  gleaned  by  the  parents,  proud  possessors  of 
such  shawlfuls  of  beauty,  talent,  and  prizes.  Marie's  class,  the  last 
to  leave,  were  picked  off  one  by  one.  She  helped  the  others  to  put  on 
their  wraps,  gather  up  their  prizes,  and  kissed  one  after  another 
good-by. 

*[From  Monsieur  Motte,  1888.] 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  MARCELITE.  3^7 

Each  man  that  came  up  was,  by  a  glance,  measured  and  compared 
with  her  imaginary  standard.  "  He  is  too  young."  "  He  is  too  fat." 
"  I  hope  he  is  not  that  cross-looking  one."  "  Maybe  it  is  he."  "  What 
a  funny  little  one  that  is ! "  "  Ah,  he  is  very  nice-looking ! "  "  Is  it 
he  ? "  "  No,  he  is  Corinne's  father."  "  I  feel  sure  he  is  that  ugly, 
disagreeable  one."  "  Ah,  here  he  is  at  last !  at  last ! "  "  No ;  he  only 
came  to  say  good-night  to  Madame."  "  He  is  afraid  of  the  crowd." 
"  He  is  waiting  outside."  "  He  is  at  the  gate  in  a  carriage."  "  After 
all,  he  has  only  sent  Marcelite."  "  I  saw  her  here  on  the  steps  a  while 
ago."  She  looked  at  the  steps ;  they  were  deserted.  There  was  but 
one  person  left  in  the  room  besides  herself;  Madame  and  her  suite 
had  gone  to  partake  of  their  yearly  exhibitional  refreshments — lem- 
onade and  masse-pain,  served  in  the  little  parlor.  Her  uncle  must  be 
that  man.  The  person  walked  out  after  finding  a  fan  he  had  returned 
to  seek. 

She  remained  standing  so  by  the  piano  a  long  while,  her  gold 
crown  on  her  head,  her  prizes  in  her  arms,  and  a  light  shawl  she  had 
thoughtfully  provided  to  wear  home.  Home  !  She  looked  all  around 
very  slowly  once  more.  She  heard  Jeanne  crossing  the  yard,  but 
before  the  servant  could  enter  the  door,  the  white  muslin  dress,  blue 
sash,  and  satin  boots  had  bounded  into  the  darkness  of  the  stairway. 
The  white-veiled  beds  which  the  night  before  had  nestled  the  gay 
papillotted  heads  were  deserted  and  silent  in  the  darkness.  What  a 
shelter  the  darkness  was !  She  caught  hold  of  the  bedpost,  not  think- 
ing, but  feeling.  Then  Madame  Joubert  came  tripping  across  the 
gallery  with  a  candle,  on  her  way  to  bed.  The  prizes  and  shawl 
dropped  to  the  floor,  and  Marie  crouched  down  close  behind  the  bar. 
"  O  God,"  she  prayed,  "  keep  her  from  seeing  me !  "  The  teacher, 
after  a  pause  of  reflection,  passed  on  to  her  room ;  the  child  on  the 
floor  gave  herself  up  to  the  full  grief  of  a  disappointment  which  was 
not  childish  in  its  bitterness.  The  events  of  the  evening  kept  slipping 
away  from  her  while  the  contents  of  her  previous  life  were  poured  out 
with  never-ending  detail ;  and  as  they  lay  there,  before  and  all  around 
her,  she  saw  for  the  first  time  how  bare,  how  denuded  of  pleasure  and 
comfort  it  had  been.  What  had  her  weak  little  body  not  endured  in 
patient  ignorance  ?  But  the  others  were  not  ignorant, — the  teachers, 
Marcelite,  her  uncle !  How  had  they  imposed  upon  the  orphan  in 
their  hands !  She  saw  it  now,  and  she  felt  a  woman's  indignation  and 
pity  over  it.  The  maternal  instinct  in  her  bosom  was  roused  by  the 
contemplation  of  her  own  infancy.  "Marcelite!  Marcelite!"  she 
called  out,  "  how  could  you  ?  For  you  knew,  you  knew  it  all !  "  The 
thought  of  a  mother  compelled  to  leave  her  baby  on  such  an  earth, 
the  betrayal  of  the  confidence  of  her  own  mother  by  her  uncle,  drew 


378  FICTION. 

the  first  tears  from  her  eyes.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the  side  of 
her  bed  and  wept,  not  for  herself,  but  for  all  women  and  all  orphans. 
Her  hand  fell  on  the  lace  of  her  dress,  and  she  could  not  recall  at  first 
what  it  was.  She  bounded  up,  and  with  eager,  trembling  fingers 
tearing  open  the  fastenings,  she  threw  the  grotesque  masquerade, 
boots  and  all,  far  from  her  on  the  floor,  and  stood  clasping  her  naked 
arms  over  her  panting  breast ;  she  had  forgotten  the  gilt  wreath  on  her 
head.  "  If  she  could  die  then  and  there !  That  would  hurt  her  uncle 
who  cared  so  little  for  her,  Marcelite  who  had  deserted  her !  "  Living, 
she  had  no  one ;  but  dead,  she  felt  she  had  a  mother.  Before  getting 
into  bed,  she  mechanically  fell  on  her  knees,  and  her  lips  repeated  the 
formula  of  a  prayer,  an  uncorrected,  rude  tradition  of  her  baby  days, 
belonging  to  the  other  side  of  her  memory.  It  consisted  of  one  simple 
petition  for  her  own  welfare ;  but  the  blessings  of  peace,  prosperity,  and 
eternal  salvation  of  her  uncle  and  Marcelite  were  insisted  upon  with 
pious  determination. 

"  I  know  I  shall  not  sleep,  I  cannot  sleep."  Even  with  the  words 
she  sank  into  the  oblivion  of  tired  nature  at  seventeen  years ;  an  ob- 
livion which  blotted  out  everything — toilette,  prizes  scattered  on  the 
floor,  graduation,  disappointment,  and  discomfort  from  the  gilt  paper 
crown  still  encircling  her  black  plaits. 

"  Has  Marcelite  come  ?  "  demanded  Madame,  before  she  tasted  her 
coffee. 

"  Not  yet,  Madame." 

"  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  her  ? " 

Jeanne  sniffed  a  volume  of  unspeakable  probabilities. 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  not  have  that  sotte  Julie ;  tell  her  so  when  she 
comes.  I  would  rather  dress  myself." 

"  Will  Madame  take  her  breakfast  alone,  or  with  Madame  Jou- 
bert?" 

The  pleasure  of  vacation  was  tempered  by  the  companionship  of 
Madame  Joubert  at  her  daily  meals — a  presence  imposed  by  that 
stern  tyrant,  common  courtesy.  '•.:'• 

"  Not  to-day,  Jeanne ;  tell  Madame  Joubert  I  have  la  migraine.  I 
shall  eat  breakfast  alone." 

"  And  Mamzelle  Marie  Modeste  ? " 

"  Marie  Modeste !  " 

"  Yes,  Madame ;  where  must  she  take  her  breakfast  ? " 

The  Gasconne's  eyes  flamed  suddenly  from  under  her  red  lashes,  and 
her  voice  ventured  on  its  normal  loud  tones  in  these  sacred  precincts. 

"  It's  a  shame  of  that  negress !  She  ought  to  be  punished  well  for 
it,  too,  ha !  Not  to  come  for  that  poor  young  lady  last  night ;  to  leave 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  MARCELITE.  379 

her  in  that  big  dormitory  aU  by  herself ;  and  all  the  other  young 
ladies  to  go  home  and  have  their  pleasure,  and  she  all  by  herself— just 
because  she  is  an  orphan.  You  think  she  doesn't  feel  that,  hein  ?  If 
I  had  known  it,  I  would  have  helped  her  undress,  and  stayed  with  her, 
too ;  I  would  have  slept  on  the  floor.  A  delicate  little  nervous  thing 
like  that ;  and  a  great  big,  fat,  lazy,  good-for-nothing  quadroon  like 
Marcelite.  Mais  Jest  infdme  !  It  is  enough  to  give  her  des  crises. 
Oh,  I  would  not  have  done  that ! — tenez,  not  to  go  back  to  France 
would  I  have  done  that.  And  when  I  got  up  this  morning,  and  saw 
her  sitting  in  the  arbor,  so  pale,  I  was  frightened  myself— I  "— 

"  What  is  all  this  you  are  telling  me  ?  Jeanne,  Jeanne,  go  immedi- 
ately ;  run,  I  tell  you— run  and  fetch  that  poor  child  here.  Ah,  mon 
Dieu  !  egoist  that  I  am  to  forget  her !  Pauvre  petite  chatte  !  What 
must  she  think  of  me  ? " 

She  jumped  out  of  bed,  threw  on  a  wrapper,  and  waited  at  the 
door,  peeping  out. 

"  Mafille,  I  did  not  know — Jeanne  has  just  told  me." 

The  pale  little  figure  made  an  effort  to  answer  with  the  old  pride 
and  indifference. 

"  It  seems  my  uncle  "- 

"  Mais  qu'est-ce  que  c'est  done,  mon  enfant  f  Do  not  cry  so !  What 
is  one  night  more  in  your  old  school  ?  It  is  all  my  fault ;  the  idea 
that  I  should  forget  you — leave  you  all  alone  while  we  were  enjoying 
our  lemonade  and  masse-pain  !  But  why  did  you  not  come  to  me  ? 
Oh,  oh !  if  you  cry  so,  I  shall  think  you  are  sorry  not  to  leave  me ! 
Besides,  it  will  spoil  your  pretty  eyes." 

"  If  Marcelite  had  only  come  "- 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  do  not  speak  of  her ;  do  not  mention  her  name  to 
me !  We  are  quittes  from  this  day ;  you  hear  me  ?  We  are  quittes. 
But,  Marie,  my  child,  you  will  make  yourself  ill  if  you  cry  so.  Keally, 
you  must  try  and  compose  yourself.  What  is  it  that  troubles  you  so  ? 
Come  here,  come  sit  by  me ;  let  me  confess  you.  I  shall  play  that  I 
am  your  maman.  There,  there,  put  your  head  here,  my  bebe,  so.  Oh, 
I  know  how  you  feel !  I  have  known  what  disappointment  was.  But 
enfin,  my  child,  that  will  all  pass ;  and  one  day,  when  you  are  old  and 
gray -headed  like  me,  you  will  laugh  well  over  it." 

The  tender  words,  the  caresses,  the  enfolding  arms,  the  tears  that 
she  saw  standing  in  the  august  schoolmistress's  eyes,  the  sympathetic 
movement  of  the  soft,  warm  bosom — her  idea  of  a  mother  was  not  a 
vain  imagining.  This  was  it ;  this  was  what  she  had  longed  for  all 
her  life.  And  she  did  confess  to  her — confessed  it  all,  from  the  first 
childish  trouble  to  the  last  disappointment.  Oh,  the  delicious  relief  of 
complete,  entire  confession  to  a  sympathetic  ear ! 


380  FICTION. 

The  noble  heart  of  Madame,  which  had  frittered  itself  away  over 
puny  distributions  of  prizes  and  deceiving  cosmetics,  beat  young, 
fresh,  and  impulsive  as  in  the  days  when  the  gray  hairs  were  chatains 
elair,  and  the  cheeks  bloomed  natural  roses.  Tears  fell  from  her  eyes 
on  the  little  black  head  lying  so  truthful,  so  confiding  on  her  bosom. 
Grand  Dieu  !  and  they  had  been  living  thirteen  years  under  the  same 
roof — the  poor,  insignificant,  abandoned,  suffering  little  Marie,  and 
the  gay,  beautiful,  rich,  envied  Madame  Lareveillere !  This  was  their 
first  moment  of  confidence.  Would  God  ever  forgive  her?  Could 
she  ever  forgive  herself  ?  How  good  it  feels  to  have  a  child  in  your 
arms— so !  She  \vent  to  the  stand  by  her  bed  and  filled  a  small  gilded 
glass  with  eau  des  carmes  and  water. 

"  There,  drink  that,  my  child  ;  it  will  compose  you.  I  must  make 
my  toilette ;  it  is  breakfast  time.  You  see,  mafille,  this  is  a  lesson. 
You  must  not  expect  too  much  of  the  men ;  they  are  not  like  us.  Oh, 
I  know  them  well !  They  are  all  egdisies.  They  take  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  for  you  when  you  do  not  want  it,  if  it  suits  them  ;  and  then 
they  refuse  to  raise  their  little  finger  for  you,  though  you  get  down 
on  your  knees  to  them.  Now,  there's  your  uncle.  You  see  he  has 
sent  you  to  the  best  and  most  expensive  school  in  the  city,  and  he  has 
dressed  you  well — oh,  yes,  very  well !  Look  at  your  toilette  last  night ! 
— real  lace  ;  I  remarked  it.  Yet  he  would  not  come  for  you  and  take 
you  home,  and  spare  you  this  disappointment.  I  wrote  him  a  note 
myself  and  sent  it  by  Marcelite." 

"  He  is  old,  Madame,"  said  Marie,  loyally. 

"  Ah,  bah  !  Plus  les  homines  sont  vieux  plus  Us  sont  mechants.  Oh, 
I  have  done  that  so  often  !  I  said, '  If  you  do  not  do  this,  I  will  not  do 
that.'  And  what  was  the  result  ?  They  did  not  do  this,  and  I  had 
tout  supplement  et  bonnement  to  do  that.  I  write  to  Monsieur  Motte, 
'  Your  niece  shall  not  leave  the  Pension  until  you  come  for  her.'  He 
does  not  come,  and  I  take  her  to  him.  Yoild  la politique feminine" 

After  breakfast,  when  they  had  dressed,  bonneted,  and  gloved 
themselves,  Madame  said : 

"  Ma  foi  !  I  do  not  even  know  where  the  old  Diogene  lives.  Do 
you  remember  the  name  of  the  street,  Marie  ?  " 

"  No,  Madame ;  somewhere  in  the  Faubourg  d'en  5«s." 

"  Ah,  well !    I  must  look  for  it  here." 

She  went  to  the  table  and  quickly  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a 
ledger. 

"Marie  Modeste  Motte,  niece  of  Monsieur  Motte.  Mais,  tiens, 
there  is  no  address !  " 

Marie  looked  with  interest  at  her  name  written  in  red  ink. 

"  No ;  it  is  not  there." 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  MARCELITE.  381 

"  Ah,  que  je  suis  lete!  It  is  in  the  other  one.  This  one  is  only  for 
the  last  ten  years.  There,  ma  jille,  get  on  a  chair.  Can  you  reach  that 
one  ?  No,  not  that,  the  other  one.  How  warm  it  is !  You  look  it 
out  for  me." 

"  I  do  not  see  any  address  here  either,  Madame." 

"  Impossible !  There  must  be  an  address  there.  True,  nothing 
but  Marie  Modeste  Motte,  niece  of  Monsieur  Motte,  just  like  the  other 
one.  Now,  you  see,  that's  Marcelite  again ;  that's  all  her  fault.  It 
was  her  duty  to  give  that  address  thirteen  years  ago.  In  thirteen 
years  she  has  not  had  the  time  to  do  that." 

They  both  sat  down,  warm  and  vexed. 

"  I  shall  send  Jeanne  for  her  again." 

But  Jeanne's  zeal  had  anticipated  orders. 

"  I  have  already  been  there,  Madame.  I  beat  on  her  door,  I  beat 
on  it  as  hard  as  I  could;  and  the  neighbors  opened  their  windows 
and  said  they  didn't  think  she  had  been  there  all  night." 

"  Well,  then,  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  send  for  Monsieur 
le  Notaire.  Here,  Jeanne,  take  this  note  to  Monsieur  Goupilleau." 

All  unmarried  women,  widows  or  maids,  if  put  to  the  torture, 
would  reveal  some  secret,  unsuspected  sources  of  advisory  assistance 
— a  subterranean  passage  for  friendship  which  sometimes  offers  a 
retreat  into  matrimony — and  the  last  possible  wrinkle,  the  last  resist- 
ing gray  hair  is  added  to  other  female  burdens  at  the  death  of  this 
secret  counsellor  or  the  closing  up  of  the  hidden  passage.  Therefore, 
how  dreadful  it  is  for  women  to  be  condemned  to  a  life  of  such  logical 
exactions  where  a  reason  is  demanded  for  everything,  even  for  a  statu 
quo  affection  of  fifteen  years  or  more.  Madame  Lareveillere  did  not 
possess  courage  enough  to  defy  logic,  but  her  imagination  and  wit 
could  seriously  embarrass  its  conclusions.  The  raison  d'etre  of  a  Gou- 
pilleau in  her  life  had  exercised  both  into  athletic  proportions. 

"  An  old  friend,  ma  mignonne  ;  I  look  upon  him  as  a  father,  and 
he  treats  me  just  as  if  I  were  his  daughter.  I  go  to  him  as  to  a  con- 
fessor. And  a  great  institute  like  this  requires  so  much  advice — oh, 
so  much !  He  is  very  old — as  old  as  Monsieur  Motte  himself.  We 
might  just  as  well  take  off  our  things ;  he  will  not  come  before  even- 
ing. You  see,  he  is  so  discreet,  he  would  not  come  in  the  morning  for 
anything  in  the  world.  He  is  just  exactly  like  a  father,  I  assure  you, 
and  very,  very  old." 

The  graduate  and  young  lady  of  a  day  sat  in  the  rocking-chair, 
quiet,  almost  happy.  She  was  not  in  the  home  she  had  looked  for- 
ward to ;  but  Madame's  tenderness,  the  beautiful  room  in  its  soothing 
twilight,  and  the  patronizing  majesty  of  the  lit  de  justice  made  this  a 
very  pleasant  abiding  place  in  her  journey — the  journey  so  long  and 


382  FICTION. 

so  difficult  from  school  to  her  real  home,  from  girlhood  to  real  young 
ladyhood.  It  was  nearly  two  days  now  since  she  had  seen  Marcelite. 
How  she  longed  for  her,  and  what  a  scolding  she  intended  to  give 
her  when  she  arrived  at  her  uncle's,  where,  of  course,  Marcelite  was 
waiting  for  her.  How  silly  she  had  acted:  about  the  address  !  But, 
after  all,  procrastination  is  so  natural.  As  for  Madame,  Marie  smiled 
as  she  thought  how  easily  a  reconciliation  could  be  effected  between 
them,  quittes  though  they  were. 

It  is  hard  to  wean  young  hearts  from  hoping  and  planning  ;  they 
will  do  it  in  the  very  presence  of  the  angel  of  death,  and  with  their 
shrouds  in  full  view. 

Monsieur  Goupilleau  came  —  a  Frenchman  of  small  stature  but  large 
head.  He  had  the  eyes  of  a  poet  and  the  smile  of  a  woman. 

The  prelude  of  compliments,  the  tentative  flourish  to  determine  in 
which  key  the  ensuing  variation  on  their  little  romance  should  be 
played,  was  omitted.  Madame  came  brusquely  to  the  motif,  not  per- 
sonal to  either  of  them. 

"  Monsieur  Goupilleau,  I  take  pleasure  in  presenting  you  to  Made- 
moiselle Marie  Motte,  one  of  our  young  lady  graduates.  Mon  ami, 
we  are  in  the  greatest  trouble  imaginable.  Just  imagine,  Monsieur 
Motte,  the  uncle  of  mademoiselle,  could  not  come  for  her  last  night  to 
take  her  home.  He  is  so  old  am}  infirm,"  added  Madame,  consider- 
ately ;  "  so  you  see  mademoiselle  could  not  leave  last  night.  I  want  to 
take  her  home  myself  —  a  great  pleasure  it  is,  and  not  a  trouble,  I 
assure  you,  Marie  —  but  we  do  not  know  where  he  lives." 

"  Ah,  you  have  not  his  address  !  " 

"  Xo  ;  it  should  be  in  the  ledger  ;  but  an  accident  —  in  fact,  the  lazi- 
ness of  her  bonne,  who  never  brought  it,  not  once  in  thirteen  years." 


"  Yes,  her  bonne  Marcelite  ;  you  know  Marcelite  la  coiffeuse* 
What,  you  do  not  know  Marcelite,  that  great  fat  "  - 

"  Does  Marcelite  know  where  he  lives  \  " 

"  But  of  course,  mv  friend,  Marcelite  knows  ;  she  goes  there  every 
day." 

"  Well,  send  for  Marcelite." 

"  Send  for  Marcelite  !  But  I  have  sent  for  Marcelite  at  least  a  dozen 
times  !  She  is  never  at  her  room.  Marcelite  !  ha,  my  friend,  I  am 
done  with  Marcelite  !  What  do  you  think  ?  After  combing  my  hair 
for  fifteen  years  —  fifteen  years,  I  tell  you  —  she  did  not  come  yester- 
day at  all,  not  once  ;  and  the  concert  at  night  !  You  should  have  seen 
our  heads  last  night  !  We  were  frights  —  frights,  I  assure  you  !  " 

It  was  a  poetical  license,  but  the  eyes  of  Monsieur  Goupilleau  dis- 
claimed any  such  possibility  for  the  head  before  him. 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  MARCELITE.  383 

"  Does  not  mademoiselle  know  the  address  of  her  uncle  ? " 

"  Ah,  that,  no.  Mademoiselle  has  been  a  pensionnaire  at  the  In- 
stitut  St.  Denis  for  thirteen  years,  and  she  has  never  been  anywhere 
except  to  church ;  she  has  seen  no  one  without  a  chaperon ;  she  has 
received  no  letter  that  has  not  passed  through  Madame  Joubert's 
hands.  Ah !  for  that  I  am  particular,  and  it  was  Monsieur  Motte  him- 
self who  requested  it." 

"  Then  you  need  a  directory." 

"  A  what  ? " 

"  A  directory." 

"  But  what  is  that— a  directory  ? " 

"  It's  a  volume,  Madame,  a  book  containing  the  addresses  of  all  the 
residents  of  the  city." 

"  Quelle  bonne  idee  !  If  I  had  only  known  that !  I  shall  buy  one. 
Jeanne!  Jeanne!  run  quick,  ma  bonne,  to  Morel's  and  buy  me  a 
directory." 

"  Pardon,  Madame,  I  think  it  would  be  quicker  to  send  to  Bale's 
thepharmacien  at  the  corner,  and  borrow  one. — Here,  Jeanne,  take  my 
card." 

"  A  la  bonne  heure  !  now  we  shall  find  our  affair." 

But  the  M's,  which  started  so  many  names  in  the  directory,  were 
perfectly  innocent  of  any  combination  applicable  to  an  old  uncle  by 
the  name  of  Motte. 

"  You  see,  your  directory  is  no  better  than  my  books  ! " 

Monsieur  Goupilleau  looked  mortified,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  He  must  live  outside  the  city  limits,  Madame." 

"  Marcelite  always  said,  '  in  the  Faubourg  d'en  bas.' " 

Jeanne  interrupted  stolidly,  "  Monsieur  Bale  told  me  to  bring  the 
book  right  back ;  it  is  against  his  rules  to  lend  it  out  of  his  store." 

"  Here,  take  it !  take  it !  Tell  him  I  am  infinitely  obliged.  It  was 
of  no  use,  anyway.  Ah,  les  hommes  !  " 

"  Madame,"  began  Monsieur  Goupilleau,  in  precautionary  depre- 
cation. 

A  sudden  noise  outside — apparently  an  assault  at  the  front  door ; 
a  violent  struggle  in  the  ante-chamber. 

"  Grand  Dieu  !  what  can  that  be  ? "  Madame's  lips  opened  for  a 
shrill  Au  secours  !  Voleurs  !  but  seeing  the  notary  rush  to  the  door, 
she  held  him  fast  with  her  two  little  white  hands  on  his  arm. 

"  Mon  ami,  I  implore  you !  " 

The  first  recognition ;  the  first  expression  of  a  fifteen  years'  secret 
affection !  The  first  thrill  (old  as  he  was)  of  his  first  passion !  But 
danger  called  him  outside;  he  unloosed  the  hands  and  opened  the 
door. 


384  FICTION. 

A  heavy  body,  propelled  by  Jeanne's  strong  hands,  fell  on  the 
floor  of  the  room,  accompanied  by  a  shower  of  leaves  from  Monsieur 
Bale's  directory. 

"  Miserable!  Infdme!  Effrontee!  Ah,  I  have  caught  you  ?  SceU- 
rate  !  " 

"  Marcelite ! " 

"  Marcelite ! " 

"  Marcelite ! " 

"  Sneaking  outside  the  gate !  Like  an  animal !  like  a  thief !  like  a 
dog !  Ha !  I  caught  you  well !  " 

The  powerful  arms  seemed  ready  again  to  crush  the  unresisting 
form  rising  from  the  floor. 

"  Jeanne,  hush  !  How  dare  you  speak  to  Marcelite  like  that  ?  Oh, 
ma  bonne,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? " 

Shaking,  trembling,  she  cowered  before  them,  silent. 

"  Ah !  she  didn't  expect  me,  la  fiere  negresse !  Just  look  at 
her ! " 

They  did,  in  painful,  questioning  surprise.  Was  this  their  own 
clean,  neat,  brave,  honest,  handsome  Marcelite — this  panting,  tottering, 
bedraggled  wretch  before  them,  threatening  to  fall  on  the  floor  again, 
not  daring  to  raise  even  her  eyes  ? 

"  Marcelite !  Marcelite !  who  has  done  this  to  you  ?  Tell  me,  tell 
your  bebe,  Marcelite." 

"  Is  she  drunk  ? "  whispered  Madame  to  the  notary. 

Her  tignon  had  been  dragged  from  her  head.  Her  calico  dress, 
torn  and  defaced,  showed  her  skin  in  naked  streaks.  Her  black  woolly 
hair,  always  so  carefully  packed  away  under  her  head-kerchief,  stood 
in  grotesque  masses  around  her  face,  scratched  and  bleeding  like  her 
exposed  bosom.  She  jerked  herself  violently  away  from  Marie's 
clasp. 

"  Send  them  away !  Send  them  away !  "  she  at  last  said  to  Mon- 
sieur Goupilleau,  in  a  low,  unnatural  voice.  "  I  will  talk  to  you,  but 
send  them  all  away." 

Madame  and  Marie  immediately  obeyed  his  look ;  but  outside  the 
door  Marie  stopped  firmly. 

"  Madame,  Marcelite  can  have  nothing  to  say  which  I  should  not 
hear"- 

"  Hush !  "  Madame  put  her  finger  to  her  lips  ;  the  door  was  still 
a  little  open,  and  the  voices  came  to  them. 

Marcelite,  from  the  corner  of  her  bleared  eyes,  watched  them  retire, 
and  then,  with  a  great  heave  of  her  naked  chest,  she  threw  herself  on 
the  floor  at  the  notary's  feet. 

"  Master  !     O  master !     Help  me  !  " 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  MARCELITE.  385 

All  the  suffering  and  pathos  of  a  woman's  heart  were  in  the  tones ; 
all  the  weakness,  dependence,  and  abandonment,  in  the  words. 

The  notary  started  at  the  unexpected  appeal.  His  humanity,  his 
manhood,  his  chivalry,  answered  it. 

"Mafille,  speak ;  what  can  I  do  for  you  ? " 

He  bent  over  her  as  she  lay  before  him,  and  put  his  thin,  white, 
wrinkled  hand  on  her  shoulder,  where  it  had  burst  through  her  dress. 
His  low  voice  promised  the  willing  devotion  of  a  saviour. 

"  But  don't  tell  my  bebe,  don't  let  her  know.  My  God !  it  will  kill 
her !  She's  got  no  uncle — no  Monsieur  Motte  !  It  was  all  a  lie.  It 
was  me — me,  a  nigger — that  sent  her  to  school  and  paid  for  her  " 

"  You  !     Marcelite  !     You !  " 

Marcelite  jumped  up  and  tried  to  escape  from  the  room.  Monsieur 
Goupilleau  quickly  advanced  before  her  to  the  door. 

"  You  fooled  me !  It  was  you  fooled  me ! "  she  screamed  to  Ma- 
dame. "  God  will  never  forgive  you  for  that !  My  lebe  has  heard  it 
all!" 

Marie  clung  to  her ;  Monsieur  Goupilleau  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"  Marcelite !  It  was  you — you  who  sent  me  to  school,  who  paid 
for  me  !  And  I  have  no  uncle  ? " 

Marcelite  looked  at  the  notary — a  prayer  for  help.  The  girl  fell 
in  a  chair  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  I  knew  it  would  kill  her  !  I  knew  it  would  !  To 
be  supported  by  a  nigger  ! "  She  knelt  by  the  chair.  "  Speak  to  me, 
Mamzelle  Marie.  Speak  to  me  just  once!  Pardon  me,  my  little 
mistress !  Pardon  me  !  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing  ;  I  am  only 
a  fool  nigger,  anyhow  !  I  wanted  you  to  go  to  the  finest  school  with 
ladies,  and — and — oh  !  my  hebe  won't  speak  to  me ;  she  won't  even 
look  at  me." 

Marie  raised  her  head,  put  both  hands  on  the  nurse's  shoulders, 
and  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"  And  that  also  was  all  a  lie  about  " — she  sank  her  trembling  voice 
— "  about  my  mother  ? " 

"  That  a*  lie !  That  a  lie !  'Fore  God  in  heaven,  that  was  the 
truth  ;  I  swear  it.  I  will  kiss  the  crucifix.  What  do  you  take  me 
for,  Mamzelle  Marie  ?  Tell  a  lie  about  "- 

Marie  fell  back  in  the  chair  with  a  despairing  cry. 

"  I  cannot  believe  any  of  it." 

"  Monsieur  !  Madame  !  I  swear  to  you  it's  the  truth  !  God  in 
heaven  knows  it  is.  I  wouldn't  lie  about  that — about  my  poor  dead 
young  mistress.  Monsieur  !  Madame  !  Tell  Miss  Marie  for  me  ;  can't 
you  believe  me  ? "  She  shrieked  in  desperation  to  Monsieur  Goupilleau. 

He  came  to  her  unhesitatingly.     "  I  believe  you,  Marcelite."     He 

25 


386  FICTION. 

put  his  hand  again  on  her  shoulder ;  his  voice  faltered,  "  Poor 
Marcelite ! " 

"  God  bless  you,  master !  God  bless  you  for  that !  Let  me  tell  you ; 
you  believe  me  when  my  fiebe  won't.  My  young  mistress,  she  died  ; 
my  young  master,  he  had  been  killed  in  the  war.  My  young  mistress 
was  all  alone  by  herself,  with  nobody  but  me,  and  I  didn't  take  her 
poor  little  baby  out  of  her  arms  till  she  was  dead,  as  she  told  me. 
Mbn  bebe,  mon  bebe  !  don't  you  know  that's  the  truth  ?  Can't  you 
feel  that's  the  truth  ?  You  see  that ;  she  will  never  speak  to  me 
again.  I  knew  it ;  I  told  you  so.  I  heard  her  last  night,  in  that  big 
room,  all  by  herself,  crying  for  Marcelite.  Marcelite  !  my  God  !  I 
was  afraid  to  go  to  her,  and  I  was  just  under  a  bed.  You  think  that 
didn't  most  kill  me  ? "  She  hid  her  face  in  her  arms,  and  swayed  her 
body  back  and  forth. 

"  Marcelite,"  said  Monsieur  Goupilleau.  The  voice  of  the  cham- 
pion trembled,  and  his  eyes  glistened  with  tears  at  the  distress  he 
had  pledged  himself  to  relieve.  "  Marcelite,  I  believe  you,  my  poor 
woman  ;  I  believe  you.  Tell  me  the  name  of  the  lady,  the  mother  of 
Mademoiselle." 

"  Ha  !  her  name !  I  am  not  ashamed  to  tell  her  name  before  any- 
body. Her  name !  I  will  tell  you  her  name."  She  sprang  to  her 
feet.  "  You  ask  anybody  from  the  Paroisse  St.  Jacques  if  they  ever 
heard  the  name  of  Mamzelle  Marie  Modeste  Yiel  and  Monsieur 
Alphonse  Motte.  That  was  the  name  of  her  mother  and  her  father, 
and  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it  that  I  shouldn't  tell,  ha !  Yes,  and  I 
am  Marcelite  Gaulois,  and  when  my  mother  was  sold  out  of  the 
parish,  who  took  me  and  brought  me  up,  and  made  me  sleep  on  the 
foot  of  her  bed,  and  fed  me  like  her  own  baby,  hein  f  Mamzelle  Marie 
Yiel's  mother,  and  Mamzelle  was  the  other  baby ;  and  she  nursed  us 
like  twins,  hein  f  You  ask  anybody  from  the  Paroisse  St.  Jacques. 
They  know ;  they  can  tell  you." 

Marie  stood  up. 

"  Come,  Marcelite,  let  us  go.  Madame,  Monsieur " —  She  evi- 
dently struggled  to  say  something  else,  but  she  only  reiterated,  "  I 
must  go  ;  we  must  go.  Come,  Marcelite,  let  us  go." 

No  one  would  have  remarked  now  that  her  eyes  were  too  old  for 
her  face. 

"  Go  ?     My  Lord !     Where  have  you  got  to  go  to  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  go  home  to  Marcelite  ;  I  want  to  go  away  with  her. 
Come,  Marcelite,  let  us  go.  Oh  !  don't  you  all  see  I  can't  stay  here 
any  longer  ?  Let  me  go !  Let  me  go  ! " 

"  Go  with  me  !  Go  to  my  home !  A  white  young  lady  like  you 
go  live  with  a  nigger  like  me  ! " 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  MARCELITE.  387 

"  Come,  Marcelite,  please  come ;  go  with  me ;  I  don't  want  to  stay 
here." 

"  You  stand  there !  You  hear  that !  Monsieur !  Madame !  You 
hear  that ! " 

"  Marcelite,  I  want  to  go  with  you ;  I  want  to  live  with  you ;  I 
am  not  too  good  for  that." 

"  What !  You  don't  think  you  ain't  white  1  O  God !  Strike  me 
dead ! " 

She  raised  her  naked  arms  over  her  head,  imploring  destruc- 
tion. 

"Marcelite,  mafille,  do  not  forget,  I  have  promised  to  help  you. 
Marcelite,  only  listen  to  me  a  moment.  Mademoiselle,  do  not  fear ; 
Mademoiselle  shall  not  leave  us.  I  shall  protect  her ;  I  shall  be  a 
father  to  her  "- 

"  And  I,"  said  Madame,  drawing  Marie  still  closer  to  her,  "  I  shall 
be  her  mother." 

"  Now,  try,  Marcelite,"  continued  Monsieur  Goupilleau,  "  try  to 
remember  somebody,  anybody  who  knows  you,  who  knew  your  mi,s- 
tress ;  I  want  their  names.  Anybody,  anybody  will  do,  my  poor 
Marcelite  !  Indeed,  I  believe  you ;  we  all  believe  you  ;  we  know  you 
are  telling  the  truth.  But  is  there  not  a  person,  even  a  book,  a  piece 
of  paper,  anything,  you  can  remember  ?  " 

He  stood  close  to  her  ;  his  head  did  not  reach  above  her  shoulders, 
but  his  eyes  plead  into  her  face  as  if  petitioning  for  his  own  honor ; 
and  then  they  followed  the  hands  of  the  woman  fumbling,  feeling, 
passing,  repassing  inside  her  torn  dress- waist.  He  held  his  hands  out 
• — the  kind,  tender  little  hands  that  had  rested  so  gently  on  her  bruised 
black  skin. 

"  If  I  have  not  lost  it,  if  I  have  not  dropped  it  out  of  my  gown 
since  last  night — I  never  have  dropped  it,  and  I  have  carried  it  round 
inside  my  body  now  for  seventeen  years  ;  but  I  was  'most  crazy  last 
night  "— 

She  put  a  small  package  all  wrapped  up  in  an  old  bandanna  hand- 
kerchief in  his  hands. 

"  I  was  keeping  that  for  my  T)ebe  /  I  was  going  to  give  it  to  her 
when  she  graduated,  just  to  remind  her  of  her  own  mother.  She 
gave  it  to  me  when  she  died." 

It  was  only  a  little  worn-out  Prayer-Book,  but  all  filled  with  writ- 
ten papers,  and  locks  of  hair,  and  dates,  and  certificates — frail,  fluttering 
scraps  that  dropped  all  over  the  table,  but  unanswerable  champions 
for  the  honor  of  dead  men  and  the  purity  of  dead  women. 

"  Par  la  grace  de  Dieu  !  "  exclaimed  the  notary,  while  the  tears 
fell  from  his  eyes  on  the  precious  relics,  discolored  and  worn  from 


388  FICTION. 

bodily  contact.     Marie  sank  on  her  knees  by  the  table,  holding  Mar- 
celite  tight  by  the  hand. 

"  Par  la  grace  de  Dieu  !  Nothing  is  wanting  here — nothing, 
nothing  except  the  forgiveness  of  this  good  woman,  and  the  assur- 
ances of  our  love  and  gratitude.  And  they  say,"  turning  to  Madame, 
he  hazarded  the  bold  step  of  taking  both  her  hands  in  his,  "they 
.  say,"  recollecting  the  tender  pressure  on  his  arm,  he  ventured  still 
further,  "  they  say,  Eugenie,  that  the  days  of  heroism  are  past,  and 
they  laugh  at  our  romance  !  " 


ON  THE  WATCH.  * 

BY    CHARLES    PATTON    DIMITRY. 

IN  common  with  the  rest  of  Alderley,  Mr.  Creech  has  been  in  a  state 
of  doubt  and  uncertainty  during  the  time  of  Captain  Vernon's  absence 
from  the  house  in  Balfour  Street;  and  he  passes  that  time  in  self- 
questionings  as  to  what  that  absence  will  result  in.  The  morning 
hours  find  him  looking  out  listlessly,  and  studying,  brick  by  brick,  the 
masonry  of  the  old  house.  He  feels  certain  that  the  mystery  who 
inhabits  it  has  not  yet  returned  from  that  visit  to  Eden  Lodge  whereof 
all  Alderley  is  ringing.  He  feels  certain  of  this,  because  at  no  time 
has  he  been  absent  from  his  post  of  observation,  during  the  hours  of 
the  day  at  the  glass  door  of  his  shop,  and  during  the  hours  of  the  night 
at  the  window  of  his  sleeping  apartment.  He  is  also  confident  that 
the  old  man — the  companion  of  him  who  dwells  in  the  house  over  the 
way — has  not  been  out  on  the  street  since  Captain  Yernon's  departure. 
If  asked  why  he  is  confident  of  this,  he  will  probably  answer  that  he 
has  been  on  the  watch  and  he  hasn't  seen  him  go  in  or  out  under  the 
lion's  head  in  all  that  time.  This,  however,  is  a  matter  of  speculation 
and  surmise. 

Certain  it  is,  though,  that  up  to  twilight  on  the  night  of  the  second 
day  of  Captain  Yernon's  absence,  no  evidences  of  his  return  have  met 
the  eye  of  the  little  tobacconist,  sitting  at  his  nightly  window,  watch- 
ing and  waiting. 

The  street  is  well-nigh  deserted.  The  larger  portion  of  Alderley  at 
this  hour  is  gathered  about  snug  fires,  chatting  comfortably  over  the 
events  of  the  day,  and  not  a  few  of  them  wondering :  What  will 
come  of  it  ? 

The  smoke  from  hundreds  of  chimneys,  joining  the  gathering 
shadows  of  the  night,  hangs  like  a  curtain  above  Alderley,  and  through 
this  veil  the  lamps  glimmer  and  twinkle  in  a  weak  and  uncertain 
way. 

Not  so  weak,  though,  but  that  Mr.  Creech,  leaning  his  head 
against  the  casement  of  the  window  and  looking  out  vacantly  into 
the  smoke  and  shadow,  can  see  something  to  reward  his  long  hours  of 
laborious  vigil ! 

What  is  it  ? 

*  [  From  The  House  in  Balfour  Street  (1868).] 


390  FICTION. 

Creeping  up  the  street,  guiltily,  and  with  cautious  steps,  he  sees 
the  figure  of  a  man  advancing  toward  the  house  in  Balfour  Street. 
Is  there  anything  remarkable  about  this  figure  thus  creeping  up  ?  Is 
there  anything  to  cause  Mr.  Creech  to  reflect,  in  the  long  cloak,  and  in 
the  slim,  lithe  figure  of  the  man  himself  ? 

There  is  a  lamp  immediately  opposite  the  tobacconist's  shop.  The 
figure  has  reached  this  lamp,  and  is  standing  under  it,  and  is  looking 
up  (curiously,  it  seems  to  the  watcher)  at  the  windows  of  the  old 
house.  Mr.  Creech  rubs  his  eyes,  and  blows  with  his  breath  upon  the 
window  near  which  he  is  sitting,  and  wipes  the  moisture  away  with 
his  sleeve,  and  looks  out  eagerly.  He  will  not  be  certain — he  is  not 
certain  of  anything  in  these  later  days — but  he  is  willing  to  wager 
high  that  he  has  once  before  seen  the  man  who  stands  under  the  gas- 
light. 

Not  that  he  can  tell  this  by  the  stranger's  features,  for  he  cannot 
see  his  face,  concealed  as  it  is  by  the  slouched  hat  and  the  shawl 
wrapped  about  his  neck.  But,  unless  he  is  much  mistaken,  he  has  seen 
that  cloak  before. 

Yes  ;  he  has  it  now  !  The  cloaked  mystery  that  stole  away  from 
the  old  house,  when  he  was  aroused  from  sleep  by  the  closing  of  the 
door. 

Mr.  Creech  is  all  eagerness  and  watchful  anxiety  now.  He  sees 
the  mystery  that  the  old  house  conceals  gathering  darker  and  darker 
around  him  and  carrying  him  with  it  to  the  end.  And  he  sees,  with 
an  affrighted  curiosity,  the  cloaked  figure  come  from  under  the  light 
and  cross  the  street  and  stand  in  the  shadow  of  the  mandarin  before 
his  own  door.  What  next?  Staring  down  on  him  from  his  dark 
room,  the  tobacconist  sees  him  light  a  match  against  the  mandarin's 
leg  and  hold  it  to  his  lips.  He  is  about  to  smoke.  Not  a  cigar,  nor  a 
pipe,  but  a  cigarette.  A  foreigner  now,  he'll  be  sworn !  Whatever 
doubt  he  may  have  had  before,  as  to  whether  the  man  whom  he  saw 
on  that  eventful  night,  sitting  and  talking  with  Captain  Vernon  in  the 
old  house,  were  really  a  foreigner,  is  dispelled  now.  The  cigarette  has 
decided  the  matter. 

The  figure  on  the  pavement  below,  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the 
mandarin,  smokes  and  stares  for  a  half -hour  at  the  house  over  the  way. 
The  tobacconist,  alert  and  watchful,  from  his  post  at  the  window  stares 
for  a  half-hour  at  him. 

In  this  lapse  of  time  the  darkness  has  gathered  more  deeply,  and 
the  smoke  has  joined  it  more  visibly,  and,  together,  they  cover  AJderley 
with  a  dense  curtain.  No  man  is  abroad  now.  No  man  in  Balfour 
Street  save  the  cloaked  mystery,  staring  at  the  house  over  the  way 
and  patiently  waiting. 


ON  THE  WATCH.  391 

Waiting  for  what  ? 

What  sound  is  that  which  strikes  the  ear  of  the  little  tobacconist 
and  that  of  the  figure  leaning  against  the  mandarin  ?  What  sound  is 
it  that  has  the  power  to  cause  them  both  to  lean  simultaneously  for- 
ward—the man  below  out  of  the  shadow,  and  the  man  above  with  his 
face  thrust  to  the  extreme  limit  of  the  window— and  to  gaze  in  the 
direction  from  which  it  proceeds  ? 

It  is  the  echo  of  footfalls,  ringing  out  angrily  on  the  quiet  night 
and  coming  toward  the  house  in  Balfour  Street  from  the  direction  of 
the  stables. 

The  few  moments  that  pass  seem  like  hours  to  the  tobacconist. 
How  do  they  seem  to  the  man  below  ? 

Looking  in  the  direction  from  which  comes  the  sound  of  the  invis- 
ible heel  upon  the  pavement,  the  tobacconist  sees,  emerging  out  of  the 
smoke  and  the  darkness  and  walking  into  the  circle  of  light  that  falls 
from  the  lamp,  a  form  that  does  not  require  a  second  look  to  establish 
its  identity.  A  form  vast  and  towering,  and  with  angry,  gesticulat- 
ing hands.  The  form  of  Captain  Horace  Yernon,  late  of  Her  Majesty's 
service. 

In  the  quick  glance  that  he  gives  below,  after  satisfying  himself  of 
this,  Mr.  Creech  sees  the  man  upon  the  pavement  draw  farther  back 
into  the  shadow  and  throw  his  cigarette  upon  the  pavement  and  stamp 
it  out.  He  does  not  wish  to  be  seen  by  the  man  who  has  just  appeared 
upon  the  scene,  the  little  tobacconist  thinks. 

No  time  for  surmises  now ! 

Captain  Yernon  has  walked  out  of  the  circle  of  light  and  is  stand- 
ing before  the  door  of  the  old  house.  His  hand  is  upon  the  knocker ; 
but  he  hesitates  to  raise  it. 

All  this  the  little  tobacconist  can  see  in  the  uncertain  light  that 
comes  from  the  lamp ;  and  of  all  this,  too,  the  man  below  is  witness. 

Staring  down  with  trembling  eagerness,  Mr.  Creech  waits  for  what 
is  to  follow.  Will  Captain  Yernon  arouse  the  old  man  in  the  house, 
and  will  he  pass  under  the  lion's  head ?  No !  He  has  dropped  the 
knocker  and  has  turned  away  from  the  door.  He  stands  for  a  moment, 
a  shadow  against  the  darker  shadow  of  the  opposite  wall,  and  then 
walks  away  in  the  direction  from  which  he  has  come.  The  man  below, 
peering  out  of  his  place  of  concealment,  follows  him  with  his  eye. 
The  tobacconist  above  observes  them  both. 

Captain  Yernon  has  passed  again  under  the  lamp,  and  his  form  is 
again  becoming  indistinct  in  the  night.     The  sound  of  his  footfall 
becomes  fainter,  but  he  is  not  so  far  off  but  that  the  tobacconist  can 
see  his  hand  raised  heavenward  and  threatening  the  stars. 
But  what  of  the  man  below  2 


392  FICTION. 

He,  too,  is  moving.  He  has  crossed  the  street  and  is  following 
Captain  Yernon.  But  no  sound  of  footfalls  comes  to  the  tobacconist's 
ear  as  he  walks.  If  Mr.  Creech  were  asked  to  describe  his  manner  of 
walking  at  this  moment,  he  feels  certain  that  he  would  describe  him  as 
walking  on  his  toes.  He  does  not  walk  boldly,  either.  Eather  does 
he  court  the  obscurity  of  the  houses  and  the  shadow  of  the  walls. 
Creeping  cautiously,  not  too  fast  to  overtake  the  man  ahead  of  him, 
and  not  so  slow  as  to  lose  sight  of  him,  the  tobacconist  sees  him,  too, 
pass  under  the  lamp  and  into  the  gloom  beyond. 

Then,  as  though  a  voice  were  calling  upon  him  to  follow,  Mr. 
Creech  moves  away  from  the  window  and  gropes  down  the  stairs  and 
goes  into  the  street.  He  forgets  his  great-coat,  and  the  cold  air  chills 
him.  But  his  thoughts  are  elsewhere  in  that  moment.  They  are  with 
Captain  Yernon  passing,  a  square  away,  under  the  lamp  at  the  corner, 
with  the  cloaked  figure  cautiously  following  him. 

He  turns  the  key  in  the  door,  buttons  his  coat  about  him,  and  then 
moves  silently  behind  the  man  who  had  been  watching  and  waiting  in 
the  shadow  of  the  mandarin. 

Now  what  shall  the  little  tobacconist  see  ? 

If  he  have  not  a  stout  heart  in  his  bosom,  and  if  he  be  not  a  bold 
enough  man  to  look  death  calmly  in  the  face,  let  him  go  back ! 


A  MORNING-GLORY.* 

BY    M.    E.    M.    DAVIS. 

[MOLLIE  EVELYN  (MOORE)  DAVIS,  wife  of  Major  Thomas  E.  Davis,  editor  of  the  New 
Orleans  Picayune,  is  the  author  of  Minding  the  Gap,  and  Other  Poems  (1870),  and  In 
War  Times  at  La  Rose  Blanche  (1887).  Her  prose  is  simple,  pathetic,  and  graceful.  Long 
before  she  had  attained  national  fame  as  a  poet,  one  of  her  critics  said  :  "  Taking  Miss 
Moore's  poems  all  in  all,  they  indicate  a  wide  range  of  excellence,  a  lofty  sweep  of  thought, 
a  subtle  gift  in  allegory  and  personification,  and  richness  in  exquisite  fancies."] 

"  DEY  is  sholy  fightin'  up  yander  somewhurs  pas'  de  ben'  o'  de 
river,"  said  Uncle  Joshua,  shaking  his  head  mournfully.  "  Dat  rum- 
berlin'  am  de  canyun-balls  bustin'  fum  de  canyuns,  an'  dat  crackerlin' 
am  de  shot-guns  an'  de  muskits.  Oh,  Lord !  what  foolishness  is  done 
tu'n  de  hade  o'  dy  people,  dat  mek  'em  lif  up  de  han'  ginse  one  anoder 
ter  'stroy  de  Ian',  an'  ter  full  up  de  Valley  o'  Armyergedjen  wid  blood 
eenermos'  ter  de  bridles  o'  de  hosses ! — Don't  you  be  skeered,  Mis' 
Lucy,  honey,"  he  broke  off  abruptly,  turning  his  kindly  old  face 
toward  my  mother.  "  Don't  you  be  skeered  ;  ain't  nobody  gwine  ter 
tech  er  ha'r  o'  yo'  hade  whilse  yo'  Uncle  Joshua  han'  am  hot." 

A  heavy  boom  like  the  crash  of  distant  thunder  had  startled  us  as 
we  sat  at  the  breakfast-table.  Mother  had  arisen,  trembling,  when  the 
sound  came  again — and  again — and  finally  seemed  to  be  merged  into 
one  continuous  roar  that  palpitated  along  the  ground  and  made  the 
house  quiver  faintly  beneath  our  feet.  She  had  gone  out  on  the  back 
veranda,  leaving  the  food  untouched  on  her  plate ;  and  there  the 
household  was  gathered — black  and  white — listening  and  looking  in 
strained  expectation. 

A  cold  little  wind  blew  in  our  faces,  but  the  azure  January  sky 
laughed  cloudless  in  the  yellow  sunshine,  save  where  a  vaporous  ridge 
of  smoke  was  gradually  spreading  along  the  tops  of  the  moss-hung 
trees  in  the  bend  of  the  river. 

As  the  morning  wore  away,  sharper  and  shriller  sounds  smote  our 
ears,  coming  nearer  one  while,  and  then  receding  like  the  waves  of  the 
sea ;  and  sometimes  we  almost  thought  we  heard  confused  cries  and 
hoarse  shouts. 

At  first  there  had  been  a  good  deal  of  noise  and  excitement 

*  [In  War  Times  at  La  Rose  Blanche.  Copyright,  1888,  by  D.  Lothrop  Company, 
of  Boston.] 


394  FICTION. 

about  the  place.  The  field-hands  came  hurrying  in ;  the  women  ran 
up,  and  many  of  them  crept  under  the  veranda  of  the  "  great-house  " 
or  huddled  in  the  lower  halls ;  the  men  hung,  hesitating,  around  the 
cabins  in  the  Quarter  for  a  while  and  then  disappeared ;  old  Aunt  Kose 
came  across  the  back  yard  driving  the  forgotten  babies  before  her  like 
a  flock  of  little  brown  woolly  sheep,  and  mounting  the  steps  painfully 
between  Uncle  Joshua  and  Mammy  she  was  placed  in  mother's  own 
chair  in  the  wide  sitting-room,  where  a  cheerful  wood-fire  blazed,  and 
where  the  babies  toddled  about  as  much  at  home  on  the  flowered 
carpet  as  on  the  bare  floor  of  Mammy's  cabin. 

After  a  while,  however,  a  stillness  fell  over  La  Kose  Blanche  and 
over  the  group  on  the  gallery.  Even  the  four  little  boys  sat  hand  in 
hand  in  a  row  together  on  the  top  step,  silent,  and  with  small  sober 
faces  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  unwonted  sounds. 

But  they  jumped  up  and  flew  to  Mammy,  hiding  their  faces  in  her 
skirts,  as  old  Jupe,  who  was  lying  at  their  feet,  lifted  his  head  sud- 
denly and  uttered  a  long  lugubrious  howl,  and  at  the  same  moment  a 
volley  of  shots  rang  sharply  out  at  the  farther  edge  of  the  rear  cane- 
fields,  followed  by  a  rushing,  trampling  sound,  and  another  but  more 
irregular  volley. 

And  a  confused  mass  of  men  came  flying  across  the  yellow  stubble 
of  the  field,  striding  over  the  low  hedge  and  leaping  the  ditch,  almost 
at  the  very  spot  where  the  soldiers  had  come  swarming  over  last  sum- 
mer. Only,  these  flying  men,  who  clutched  their  guns  and  breathed 
heavily  as  they  ran,  wore  gray  uniforms.  Their  faces  were  grimy 
with  smoke  and  dust ;  and  here  and  there  one  wore  a  bloody  bandage 
about  his  head  in  lieu  of  a  cap. 

Some  of  them  glanced  up  as  they  dashed  obliquely  across  the  yard, 
and  one,  a  boyish  fellow  with  dark  eyes  shining  in  his  swarthy  face, 
even  smiled  and  cheered  as  he  caught  sight  of  mother's  down-stretched 
arms  and  silent,  prayerful  face.  He  disappeared  with  the  rest  around 
the  corner  of  the  house ;  others  passed  lower  down  by  the  stables  and 
swept  across  the  orange-plantation  ;  others,  farther  down  still,  skirted 
along  the  hedge — in  all,  perhaps,  a  couple  of  hundred  men,  though  they 
seemed  thrice  that  number. 

Sharp  shots  still  echoed  behind  them,  and  hardly  had  they  begun 
to  leap  over  or  break  through  the  rose-hedges  bordering,  on  either 
side,  the  wide  lane,  when  a  straggling  line  of  men  in  blue  came  pant- 
ing over  the  cane-stubble,  and  striding  the  low  hedge,  and  leaping  the 
ditch,  and  rushing  across  the  grounds  in  hot  pursuit. 

We  ran  down  the  long  hall  and  out  upon  the  front  veranda,  and 
stood  there  breathless.  It  was  like  a  dream,  with  men  as  phantoms 
blown  across  it.  Not  a  word  or  a  cry,  except  that  one  little  cheer 


A   MORNING-GLORY.  395 

that  broke  from  the  dark-eyed  boy  as  he  sped  past,  had  escaped  the 
lips  of  pursued  or  pursuer  since  they  came  first  in  sight. 

And  now,  the  foremost  line— though,  indeed,  neither  blue  nor  gray 
were  formed  in  lines,  but  dashed  along  in  irregular  and  broken  squads 
that  were  here  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  there  were  wide  apart— the 
gray  line  was  now  sweeping  across  the  field  beyond  the  lane ;  we  saw 
them  run  up  the  sloping  embankment  of  the  wide  ditch  that  marks  the 
boundary  of  La  Rose  Blanche.  Their  forms  stood  dark  and  sharply 
outlined  for  a  brief  second  against  the  sky ;  then  dropped  out  of  sight. 

Their  pursuers,  hardly  equalling  them  in  numbers,  followed  im- 
petuously ;  but  stopped  suddenly,  as  a  flash  of  fire  ran  along  the 
weedy  edge  of  the  embankment,  a  puff  of  bluish  vapor  arose,  and  a 
rattling  volley  burst  and  went  echoing  by.  For  a  long  time — it  seems 
to  me  as  I  remember  it,  though  it  was  in  reality,  perhaps,  but  a  few 
moments — the  bluecoats  held  their  ground,  and  the  crash  of  inter- 
changing shots  filled  the  air  Avith  confusion. 

M'lindy  and  'Riah  and  Sophy  fled  shrieking  into  the  hall,  but  I 
think  none  of  the  others  stirred  ;  the  little  boys  only  shrunk  closer  to 
Mammy  and  Uncle  Joshua,  and  Mandy  and  I  pressed  a  little  nearer 
to  mother  and  cousin  Nellie,  as  the  bullets  came  whizzing  by.  One 
even  struck  a  post  of  the  veranda,  just  above  where  cousin  Xellie's 
canary  swung  in  its  gilded  cage,  flattened  and  fell  on  the  steps. 
Mammy  reached  up  and  unhooked  the  cage.  "  Hits  dade"  she  said 
with  a  sob,  as  she  took  out  the  little  creature,  which  had  not  been 
struck  by  the  ball,  but  had  perhaps  died  of  fright.  The  fluffy  yellow 
ball  lying  motionless  in  Mammy's  large  dusky  palm  stands  out  curi- 
ously vivid  amid  the  disordered  memories  of  that  fearful  time. 

There  was  a  sudden  wavering  among  the  men  in  blue ;  they  fell 
back,  at  first  step  by  step,  and  then  more  rapidly.  Then  from 
behind  the  embankment  the  men  in  gray  arose.  They  appeared  once 
more  outlined  against  the  sky,  and  a  yell,  hoarse,  harsh,  terrible, 
burst  from  them  as  they  rushed  down  the  slope.  A  swift  light,  like  a 
streak  of  forked  lightning,  darted  along  their  now  almost  compact 
ranks.  It  was  the  glinting  of  the  low  sun  upon  their  bayonets  and 
upon  their  polished  gun-barrels. 

It  seemed  but  a  moment  before  they  all  panted  by  again  ;  the 
straggling  line  of  blue  followed  this  time  by  the  straggling  line  of 
gray,  leaping  the  ditch,  striding  over  the  hedge,  sweeping  across  the 
yellow  stubble,  and  plunging  into  the  wood.  An  occasional  shot  came 
ringing  back,  and  once  again  the  wild  yell  was  borne  to  us,  fainter, 
but  more  exultant  still ;  but  soon  we  heard  nothing  but  the  distant 
boom  of  the  cannon,  which  itself  was  coming  at  longer  intervals,  and 
which  died  away  in  silence  as  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun  turned  to 


396  FICTION. 

a  dark  yello  wish  red  the  low-lying  cloud  of  smoke  caught  on  the  tree- 
tops  in  the  bend  of  the  river. 

"  'Pears  like  dey  all  uz  playin'  Deer  an'  Dogs,"  remarked  Mandy. 
"  An'  hit's  powerful  hard  ter  tell  which  air  de  deer  an'  which  air  de 
dogs ! " 

When  we  ran  again  to  the  back  veranda  to  watch  "  the  battle  "- 
as  we  always  called  it  afterward — roll  back  into  the  wood,  we  found 
two  soldiers  seated  on  the  steps.  They  wore  faded  gray  uniforms  and 
ragged  shoes  and  tattered  caps.  One  of  them,  an  old  man  with  a  gray 
beard,  and  homely,  wrinkled  face,  was  tying  a  soiled  handkerchief 
about  the  other  one's  arm. 

"  Oh,  it  ain't  nothing  ma'am,"  said  the  boy,  for  he  was  a  mere  lad, 
looking  up  bashfully  at  mother  and  cousin  Nell,  who  hovered  over 
him  with  clean  bandages  and  lint  and  healing  salve.  "  Jest  a  scratch, 
ain't  it,  dad  ? " 

The  old  man  was  presently  telling  mother,  while  the  boy  ate  a 
slice  of  bread  and  drank  some  milk,  where  they  came  from. 

"  'Way  out  yander  by  the  Warloopy  Eiver  in  Texas.  The  ole 
woman  an'  the  gals  is  thar  a-makin'  of  the  craps,  an'  me  an'  Jake 
air  a-carryin'  on  the  war !  "  He  laughed  gayly  and  passed  an  affec- 
tionate arm  around  Jake's  thin  shoulders.  "  Come,  Jake,"  he  added, 
rising  to  his  feet,  "  the  boys'll  be  a-hikin'  away  'fore  we  git  thar  'f  we 
don't  look  out.  We  jest  put  in  fur  a  little  scrimmage,  ma'am  ;  the 
Yanks  air  a  heap  too  many  fur  we-uns  roun'  in  these  here  diggin's." 

And  they  trudged  away. 

We  watched  them  stepping  cheerily  across  the  field,  the  boy  still 
gathered  within  the  long  bony  arm.  They  paused  and  looked  back 
when  they  reached  the  verge  of  the  field,  and  a  moment  later  they 
were  lost  to  sight. 

It  was  many  a  long  day  before  we  saw  a  gray  uniform  again. 

The  next  morning  was  quiet  enough.  The  women  and  boys  came 
creeping  back  from  the  swamp  to  which  they  had  fled  at  the  first 
crack  of  the  rifles ;  but  the  men,  except  Uncle  Joshua,  had  for  the 
time  wholly  disappeared. 

Old  Aunt  Kose  and  the  flock  of  babies  remained  in  the  sitting- 
room  ;  and  there  mother  was  tending  one  of  Aunt  Ca'lline's  "  triplers  " 
— Marthy,  I  think  it  was — who  had  a  fever  and  sore  throat,  when 
Uncle  Joshua  came  in,  his  face  wearing  a  strange,  troubled,  frightened 
look.  He  stooped  over  mother  where  she  knelt  by  the  child's  pallet, 
and  said  something  to  her  in  a  low  voice.  A  still  deeper  pallor  passed 
over  her  pale  face.  She  stood  up  and  motioned  to  cousin  Nellie  to 
take  her  place,  pressing  the  glass  and  spoon  she  held  into  her  hand, 
and  went  out  without  a  word. 


A  MORNING-GLORY.  397 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps,  when  she  found  that  Mandy  and  I  and 
the  four  little  boys  had  followed  her,  she  turned  and  opened  her  lips 
as  if  to  send  us  back,  but  took  my  hand  instead  and  drew  me  to  her 
side.  Uncle  Joshua  led  us  through  the  orange-plantation.  The 
leafy  boughs  over  our  heads,  broken  by  the  bullets  of  the  day  before, 
hung  down  dying  and  exhaling  a  sweet  musky  perfume ;  the  ground 
in  many  places  was  trampled  where  the  soldiers  had  passed  through, 
and  the  dry  grass  was  crushed  into  the  brown  earth. 

We  neared  the  play-house ;  and  then— I  cannot  tell  why— I  sud- 
denly divined  what  it  was  that  we  had  come  out  to  see,  and  I  longed 
to  stop,  but  somehow  felt  as  if  I  could  not. 

He  was  lying  there — my  Yankee  playfellow — close  under  the 
shadow  of  the  broken  hedge,  not  far  from  where  I  had  first  seen  him. 
His  face,  strange  and  pallid,  was  upturned  to  the  sky,  his  eyes  were 
wide  open,  all  their  laughing  blue  faded  to  a  dull  opaque  gray.  One 
arm  was  thrown  up  over  his  head,  and  the  other  lay  across  his  breast, 
concealing  the  bullet  hole  in  his  jacket,  but  not  the  dark  red  stain 
which  spread  along  his  side  and  dyed  the  brown  grasses  around  him. 
His  gun  was  lying  a  few  feet  away  where  it  had  fallen  from  his  nerve- 
less hand,  whose  white  fingers  were  still  bent  as  if  to  grasp  it.  A 
soft  dim  sunlight — for  the  sky  was  clouding — streamed  over  him,  and 
a  bird  in  the  wild  peach-tree  was  twittering  gently. 

My  mother  sprang  forward  with  an  agonized  cry — the  only  one 
wrung  from  those  brave  lips  through  all  the  four  years  of  suspense 
and  agony — and  threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  dead  boy,  and 
pressed  her  lips  to  his  cold  forehead. 

I  stood  by  quivering,  but  tearless,  while  she  wiped  the  ghastly  face 
with  her  handkerchief,  and  smoothed  back  the  brown,  curling  hair, 
with  little  inarticulate  caressing  murmurs,  and  pressed  the  white  lids 
over  the  staring  eyes,  and  sought  to  compose  the  stiffened  limbs. 

But  I  burst  into  a  passion  of  weeping  when  she  gently  opened  the 
blood-stained  jacket  and  drew  from  the  pocket  a  packet  of  letters  and 
that  photograph  of  the  sweet-faced  mother,  with  the  child  that  "  looked 
like  me ?'  leaning  against  her  knee,  which  he  had  shown  me  so  proudly 
in  the  play-house  that  unforgotten  summer  day. 

They  laid  him — Uncle  Joshua  and  Mammy  and  mother — upon  the 
linen  sheet,  and  wrapped  its  thick,  white,  scented  folds  tenderly  about 
him.  And  mother  sat  beside  him  while  Uncle  Joshua  and  Mammy 
dug  the  grave.  It  was  sundown  before  the  resting-place  was  hollowed 
deep  enough,  and  by  that  time  the  sky  was  thick  with  clouds,  a  chill 
wind  had  arisen,  and  heavy  drops  of  rain  were  beginning  to  fall. 

Mandy  and  I  and  the  little  boys  had  dragged  up  long  garlands  of 
green  from  the  ruined  rose-hedge,  and  branches  from  the  wild  peach- 


398  FICTION. 

tree ;  and  of  these  Uncle  Joshua  made  a  green  couch  in  the  bottom  of 
the  grave,  where  the  earth  was  moist  and  cold ;  and  upon  this  they 
laid  him,  with  his  gun  beside  him,  and  over  him  again  they  heaped  the 
glistening  green  of  rose-brier  and  honeysuckle. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  the  earth  was  rounded  up  to  a  mound 
above  him,  and  Uncle  Joshua  and  Mammy  leaned  exhausted  on  their 
spades.  Mother  knelt  down  on  the  wet  ground,  her  white  face  shim- 
mering through  the  darkness,  and  prayed.  Her  soft  clear  voice  seemed 
to  fill  all  the  wild  night  and  hush  it  to  repose. 

"  And  to  all  who  loved  him,  Father,  be  merciful,"  she  breathed  at 
last.  "  Bless  them  and  comfort  them,  and  give  them  of  thy  peace. 
And  upon  us  also  have  mercy." 

"  Amen"  sobbed  Uncle  Joshua. 

Then  Mammy,  who  was  crouched  at  the  foot  of  the  grave  with 
little  Percy  clasped  in  one  arm  and  me  in  the  other,  began  to  rock 
herself  slowly  from  side  to  side,  and  to  wail  softly,  and  presently  her 
voice  arose  in  a  wild  strain,  half  mournful,  half  triumphant : 

"  I  looks  at  my  ban's  an'  my  ban's  looks  new, 

Gwine  wbar  dey  ain't  no  mo'  dyin'! 
I  looks  at  my  feet  all  bathe'  in  dew, 
Gwiue  wbar  dey  ain't  no  mo'  dyin' ! 
Cryin'  Amen,  good  Lord,  cryin'  Amen, 
Gwine  whar  dey  ain't  no'  mo'  dyin' !  " 

She  paused  abruptly,  and  when  she  began  again,  Percy's  shrill 
little  voice  joined  hers  and  soared  with  it  out  into  the  ever-gathering 
darkness : 

"  De  angel  come  an'  he  shet  my  eyes, 

Gwine  whar  dey  ain't  no  mo'  dyin' ! 

But  my  Lord  he'll  open  'em  in  Pa'adise, 

Gwine  whar  dey  ain't  no  mo'  dyin'!  " 

Mother  leaned  over  and  touched  her  gently  on  the  arm.  She  arose 
and  swung  the  child  to  her  shoulder,  and  moved  away  toward  the 
house,  still  singing. 

The  strangely  blended  voices  floated  back  to  us,  as  we  followed 
silently  through  the  down-pouring  rain : 

"  Cryiii'  Amen,  good  Lord,  cryin'  Amen, 
Gwine  whar  dey  ain't  no  mo'  dyin'!  " 

A  week  later,  pale  and  tottering  yet  from  the  illness  brought  on 
by  the  excitement  and  exposure  of  that  terrible  day,  I  came  with 
Mandy  out  of  the  house.  The  storm  of  wind  and  rain  that  had  lasted 
three  or  four  days  had  been  the  breaking  up  of  our  short  winter. 


A  MORNING-GLORY.  399 

There  were  no  flowers,  but  the  vines  on  the  trellises  were  tossing 
up  feathery  tufts  of  young  leaves ;  the  lawn  was  green  and  gay  under 
the  warm  sky ;  and  as  we  passed  through  the  orange-grove  the  little 
warm  wet  grasses  were  soft  beneath  our  feet.  In  the  branches  above 
I  thought  that  I  smelled  blossoms,  though  we  could  not  find  any. 
The  grave  had  been  smoothed,  a  rough  cross  placed  at  the  head,  and 
a  board  at  the  foot.  The  grass  had  not  yet  had  time  to  grow  in  the 
beaten  space  around. 

But  on  the  top  of  the  mound  itself,  nestling  close  against  the 
brown  earth,  lo !  a  tiny,  pale-blue,  delicate  morning-glory !  Such 
haste  had  it  been  in  to  bloom,  the  tender  little  thing,  that  it  had 
hardly  waited  for  the  vine  to  put  out  a  leaf,  and  had  spared  no  time 
for  a  curling  tendril,  but  hung  there  on  the  end  of  the  single  fragile 
stem,  swaying  in  the  light  breeze,  Avith  the  dew  upon  it  and  a  faint 
sweet  fragrance  at  its  heart. 

I  stooped  and  plucked  it.  "  For  little  Ally  and  for  his  mother"  I 
said  to  myself,  softly. 

And  long  afterward,  the  withered  morning-glory  was  laid  in  the 
mother's  own  hand,  when  she  came  to  us  and  knelt  hand  in  hand  with 
my  mother  above  her  boy's  sodded  grave. 


MADELEINE  AND  BEKTHA. 

BY   EDWARD    DESSOMMES. 

[EDWARD  DESSOMMES  was  born  in  New  Orleans,  November  17,  1845.  At  the  age  of 
twelve  he  was  sent  to  Paris,  where  he  received  a  classical  education  in  the  "College  Ste. 
Barbe."  He  then  studied  medicine  in  the  Paris  School  of  Medicine,  and  was  for  three 
years  an  '"Externe  des  Hopitaux."  Shortly  after  the  publication  of  his  novel,  Femme, 
et  Statue  (1869),  his  great  master,  Victor  Hugo,  then  an  exile  at  Guernsey,  sent  the 
author  a  piece  from  his  CJiatiments  with  these  words  :  "A  Vauteur  du  noble  poeme 
Femme  et  Statue."  In  1870  M.  Dessommes  published  Jacques  Morel,  a  romance.  After 
the  Franco-Prussian  War,  he  studied  painting  under  Leon  Bonnat  and  Jules  Dupre. 
He  lias  had  several  pictures  on  exhibition  in  the  Paris  Salon.  In  1887  he  returned  to 
his  birthplace.  He  is,  at  present,  Assistant  Professor  of  French  in  Tulane  University.] 

MY  best  friend,  Viscount  Jean,  had  made  some  slighting  remarks 
about  Madeleine,  thereby  furnishing  our  club  with  gossip  for  a  whole 
evening.  And  so,  to  my  great  sorrow,  I  was  forced  to  challenge  him. 
Even  now,  at  this  moment,  I  cannot  recall  without  emotion  that  bare 
breast  which  was  offered  to  my  sword.  Three  times  I  might  have 
pierced  it,  for  I  was  a  far  better  swordsman  than  Jean  ;  but  my  heart 
melted  with  pity  at  the  mere  thought  of  shedding  blood  that  was  so 
much  dearer  to  me  than  my  own.  Every  time  our  eyes  met,  I  felt  a 
wild  impulse  to  cast  away  my  weapon — to  open  my  arms  and  press  to 
my  bosom  that  heart  whose  generosity  I  knew  so  Avell.  And  I  know 
that  Jean  had,  at  the  same  moment,  the  same  thought — felt  the  same 
desire.  But  what  would  our  seconds  have  said  ? 

After  a  contest  that  was  long  and  spiritless,  Jean,  with  a  nervous 
movement,  extended  his  arm  and  made  a  lunge  at  me. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  keeping  this  up  any  longer  ? "  I  thought,  and 
I  stood  still  to  receive  his  thrust.  His  sword  was  buried  six  inches 
deep  in  my  breast. 

How  long  I  was  unconscious  I  know  not.  "When  I  awoke  I  seemed 
to  return  from  the  depths  of  the  earth,  to  come  forth  from  nothing- 
ness, from  absolute  darkness.  I  had  brought  back  from  that  perfect 
repose  a  feeling  of  ineffable  happiness.  Ah !  if  I  could  have  spoken, 
how  I  should  have  prayed  :  "  Leave  me — let  me  rest — give  me  back  my 
beautiful  sleep !  " 

As  I  lifted  my  leaden  eyelids,  an  intense  light  shocked  my  every 
nerve.  I  heard  this  light  even  more  than  I  saw  it.  It  produced  a  more 
violent  excitement  in  the  nerves  of  hearing  than  in  those  of  sight.  I 
seemed  to  be  in  the  midst  of  a  clamorous  crowd  or  on  the  shores  of  a 


MADELEINE  AND  BERTHA.  401 

loud-voiced  sea.  I  felt  a  great  longing  for  the  tomb.  I  was  homesick 
for  the  nothingness  and  silence  of  which  I  had  caught  a  glimpse ;  and 
again  I  closed  my  eyes. 

All  at  once  I  felt  in  my  chest  so  sharp  a  pain  that  I  cried  out,  and 

opening  my  eyes  I  saw  near  me  Madeleine.  She  was  weeping yes, 

real  tears !  I  remember  it  all.  And  this  was  the  woman  that  they 
accused  of  being  untrue  to  me!  Of  course  Jean  must  have  made 
advances  to  her,  and  been  sharply  rebuffed.  Hence  his  spite  and  that 
fine  sword  thrust.  But  I  could  not  regret  the  affair.  Had  it  not 
brought  to  my  eyes  a  positive  proof  of  Madeleine's  love  ?  She  wept — 
believing  me  dead.  I  began  to  feel  vaguely  the  moisture  of  her  lips, 
and  the  warmth  of  her  tears  flowing  over  my  motionless  hand.  Ah, 
after  such  bliss  one  could  well  die !  Ah,  that  I  had  died  at  this  moment, 
with  this  impression  strong  in  my  soul ! 

She  deceive  me  !  But  poor  Jean !  Even  now  I  had  no  feeling  of 
hate  for  her  calumniator.  Betray  me — Madeleine — and  w:ith  this  Dr. 
Raymond,  whom  I  saw  even  now  at  the  other  side  of  my  bed  ?  He 
was  feeling  my  pulse  and  examining  me  closely,  but  not  a  muscle  of 
his  serenely  classic  face  betrayed  the  emotion  that  he  felt. 

All  these  thoughts  were  perfectly  clear  in  my  mind,  but  I  could 
not  speak,  and  all  the  time  my  ears  were  ringing  with  that  confused 
murmur — that  noise  of  surf  beating  on  the  shore — which  kept  me  from 
hearing  the  broken  words  of  Madeleine.  I  gazed  at  her  with  all  my 
soul.  I  tried  to  press  her  lips  with  my  fingers,  which  were  as  cold  and 
lifeless  as  those  of  a  statue. 

I  became  accustomed  to  the  burning  anguish  of  my  wound,  and 
passed  into  a  kind  of  trance — an  ecstasy  born  of  suffering  and  delight 
— a  mingling  of  blood  and  tears,  of  warmth  and  tenderness  and  light. 
But  even  then  I  bitterly  regretted  the  death  out  of  which  they  had 
dragged  me — that  annihilation  of  thought,  noise,  and  light,  that 
delicious  repose  of  which  I  had  never  dreamed  before. 

In  this  state  I  remained  for  a  long  while — perhaps  several  days — 
I  know  not.  Then  a  fire  was  kindled  in  my  breast,  and  the  blood  in 
my  veins  scalded  me  as  though  it  were  of  molten  metal.  Evidently  I 
was  delirious,  for  I  seemed  to  see  Madeleine  with  her  head  resting  on 
the  doctor's  shoulder.  To  escape  that  nightmare  I  turned  away 
abruptly.  It  was  the  first  movement  I  was  able  to  make.  Fever  had 
brought  back  the  blood  to  my  brain,  and  awakened  my  senses,  so  long 
torpid  from  loss  of  blood.  From  that  moment  I  could  hear  and 
understand.  "  Come  now,  Madeleine,"  murmured  the  doctor,  "  let  us 
have  courage.  Who  knows  but  we  shall  save  him  still?"  And 
Madeline  replied  roughly  :  "  You  can  stand  it  all  well  enough.  But 
what  is  to  become  of  me,  if  he  has  not  made  a  will  in  my  favor  ?  " 


402  FICTION. 

That  speech  pierced  my  heart  more  sharply  than  had  the  sword  of 
my  friend,  and  I  groaned  aloud. 

Madeleine  and  the  doctor  rushed  towards  the  bed,  and  fixed  upon 
me  looks  as  cold  and  as  hard  as  steel — looks  that  seemed  to  search  out 
my  most  secret  thoughts.  After  a  long  silence  the  doctor  said  calmly : 
"  Don't  be  alarmed,  Madeleine ;  it  is  only  the  fever  rising  ;  the  rush 
of  blood  to  the  brain  has  made  him  delirious.  He  understands 
nothing." 

Alas  that  he  did  not  speak  the  truth !  I  understood,  at  any  rate, 
that  I  had  nothing  left  but  to  die ;  and  once  more  I  longed  for 
oblivion.  My  spirit  soared  above  human  misery  and  treachery.  My 
love  fled  at  one  bound  to  such  a  distance  that  I  saw  it  as  one  sees  on 
the  horizon  the  peak  of  a  sail  gilded  by  the  setting  sun,  but  far  be- 
yond recall  and  on  the  point  of  vanishing  forever.  I  was  not  angry 
with  Madeleine.  After  all,  she  was  only  a  thing  of  flesh  and  blood — 
beautiful  and  coveted  of  all  men  in  the  splendid  bloom  of  her  twenty- 
five  years.  An  atmosphere  of  desire  caressed  her  lovely  form,  and  it 
was  but  natural  that  she  should  drink  it  in  as  she  drank  in  the  pure 
air  of  heaven,  that  she  should  warm  herself  in  the  rays  of  love  as  in 
those  of  the  sun. 

I  could  look  at  things  now  from  such  a  height,  I  was  so  freed  from 
personal  feeling,  that  her  faithfulness  could  no  longer  distress  me.  I 
perceived  clearly,  and  submitted  without  a  murmur  to  the  laws  of 
nature — that  nature  within  whose  bosom  I  was  about  to  return.  The 
elements  which  for  a  moment  had  united  to  give  me  being  I  could  feel 
separating  and  drifting  apart.  This  time  death  advanced  softly — step 
by  step — and  I  was  sinking  gently  to  rest.  But  even  as  the  eye  in 
passing  gradually  from  daylight  to  darkness  is  insensibly  adapted  to 
the  rarefied  light,  so  my  faculties  gradually  accustomed  themselves  to 
this  rarefied  existence,  and  recorded  in  my  soul  the  faintest  and  most 
subtile  of  sensations. 

At  a  sign  that  I  managed  to  make,  Madeleine  approached  my  bed ; 
but,  though  she  touched  my  fingers,  I  saw  her  as  if  the  great  ocean 
itself  rolled  between  us.  With  a  superhuman  eff ort  I  pointed  towards 
a  little  Louis  XYI.  desk,  where  I  kept  my  papers,  and  uttered  the 
words  "  My  will ! "  A  blue  flame  kindled  in  Madeleine's  eyes,  and  a 
divine  smile  irradiated  her  beautiful  face.  She  seemed  all  at  once 
transfigured  into  an  angel  of  light. 

From  that  time  my  sensations  were  dull  and  confused,  and  by 
degrees  my  respiration  grew  slower  and  more  feeble.  My  throat 
began  to  rattle  with  a  harsh  noise  that  grated  upon  me  painfully,  and 
then  I  ceased  to  breathe.  I  heard  the  doctor  say :  "  It  is  all  over ! " 
Madeleine  threw  herself  upon  me  with  cries  of  despair.  In  her  grati- 


MADELEINE  AND  BERTHA.  403 

tude  for  what  I  had  done,  all  her  tenderness  for  me  was  revived.  I 
believe  that  she  never  loved  me  so  ardently  as  when  she  felt  certain 
that  I  was  dead,  and  that  she  was  my  heiress.  She  shut  my  eyes 
and  kissed  them— the  velvet  of  her  lips  awakening  in  my  rigid  flesh  a 
thrill  that  was  too  faint  to  be  perceptible  to  the  eyes  of  the  living. 

The  night  came  on  slowly ;  they  lit  three  candles  and  set  them  on 
a  little  table  at  the  head  of  my  bed.  Madeleine  and  the  doctor  shrouded 
me  for  my  last  sleep  and  then  sat  down  to  watch  near  me.  I  tried 
hard  to  keep  from  hearing  what  they  said  as  they  whispered  together. 
They  were  making  plans  for  the  future,  and  she  no  longer  wept.  He 
murmured  in  her  ear  words  of  passionate  love,  the  same  fond  vows 
that  I  had  once  breathed  to  her,  though  one  would  have  thought  that 
she  heard  them  now  for  the  first  time. 

They  spoke  of  me  with  affection.  "  He  was  a  good  friend,"  de- 
clared Raymond  ;  "  rather  too  guileless,  perhaps." 

"  A  heart  of  pure  gold,"  said  Madeleine,  beginning  to  weep  again. 
She  came  and  pressed  a  lingering  kiss  on  my  forehead,  and  this  time 
her  lips  burned  me  like  hot  iron.  "  He  is  already  as  cold  as  ice,"  she 
sobbed.  "  See  here ! "  cried  Raymond  in  a  brutal  tone,  "  enough  of 
this  farce.  Let  us  get  away  from  here."  And  he  forced  her  out  of 
the  room. 

The  lids  of  one  of  my  eyes  were  imperfectly  closed,  leaving  between 
them  a  tiny  aperture  through  which  I  could  clearly  distinguish  objects 
in  my  direct  line  of  vision.  It  was,  however,  a  very  narrow  field  of 
view,  and  I  could  see  nothing  that  was  passing  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room. 

I  was  all  alone  now,  and  I  felt  my  body  freezing  through  to  the 
very  bone.  At  midnight  the  light  began  to  flicker  and  dance,  distort- 
ing the  commonplace  objects  before  me  into  glimmering  and  fantastic 
forms.  The  candles  sputtered  and  went  out.  But,  strange  to  say,  I 
found  that  I  could  see  through  the  darkness ;  I  could  still  recognize  all 
the  objects  before  me — only  everything  was  of  a  soft,  uniform  gray — 
all  color  had  been  blotted  out.  Then,  little  by  little,  my  sight  became 
clouded  ;  the  tissues  of  my  eyes  Avere  thickening,  and  the  fluids  were 
being  slowly  absorbed. 

All  at  once  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  air  in  the  room  was  agitated, 
and  I  heard  a  faint  rustling.  A  Something  showed  itself  in  my  field 
of  vision — a  Something  snowy  white.  A  gracefully  floating  drapery 
of  marble  was  all  about  me.  Fingers  were  laid  on  my  eyes — fingers 
modelled  of  some  stuff  that  had  neither  the  warmth  nor  the  elasticity 
of  life,  and  my  stiffened  eyelids  were  reopened  violently.  Then  I  saw 
standing  at  my  pillow  a  woman,  or  rather  an  angel  of  white  marble, 
whose  half-furled  wings  almost  touched  the  floor.  Her  hair  fell  in 


404  FICTION. 

heavy  masses  on  her  shoulders,  -mingling  itself  with  the  soft  down  of 
her  wings,  and  rippling  the  whole  length  of  her  body,  whose  chaste 
drapery  descended  to  her  feet.  Her  eyes,  devoid  of  pupils,  looked 
down  upon  me ;  and  from  her  closed  lips  came  a  breathless  voice,  came 
words  that  were  scarcely  articulate,  but  still  very  distinct.  "  Thou 
knowest  me  not,"  she  said,  "  and  yet  thou  didst  once  love  me  tenderly. 
Kecall  to  thy  memory  that  sombre  chapel  at  the  church  of  San 
Lorenzo,  in  Florence,  where  thou  wast  wont  to  come  so  often  and  seat 
thyself  before  a  tomb  of  white  marble." 

Then  I  remembered,  and  from  my  immobile  lips  there  came  forth 
a  breathless  voice — a  voice  like  that  of  the  statue  which  was  speak- 
ing to  me.  "  Bertha ! "  I  cried. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Bertha,"  she  answered, "  the  statue  of  Bertha  Ruccellai. 
I  have  not  forgotten,  in  spite  of  the  ten  years  that  have  passed. 
Almost  a  child  then,  and  all  crushed  with  thy  first  love  wound,  thou 
hadst  sought  death  on  the  battle-field,  and  death  had  not  deigned  to 
take  thee.  Remember  thy  emotion  the  first  time  thou  didst  see  me ! 
For  three  months  didst  thou  come  almost  daily  to  gaze  upon  me 
through  long  hours.  I  read  thy  thoughts,  but  my  response  thou 
couldst  not  hear ;  for  only  the  dead  hear  the  voice  of  the  dead.  I 
loved  thee  for  the  tears  that  thou  didst  shed  for  me,  unknown — for 
my  youth  and  my  beauty  so  untimely  gathered  to  the  tomb.  And 
since  then  my  love,  pure  and  incorruptible  as  the  marble  of  which  I 
am  made,  has  never  ceased  to  watch  over  thee.  Oh,  how  impatiently 
have  I  waited  and  longed  for  that  moment  when  thy  death  should 
reunite  us !  Now  thou  art  my  own,  and  I  am  thine.  Stone  though  I 
be,  I  have  suffered  agonies  when  I  saw  thou  couldst  forget  me  and 
squander  thy  love  in  vulgar  passions.  I  was  jealous  of  the  Yenus  of 
Milo  at  the  time  thou  wast  bewitched  by  her — that  carnal  statue 
which  lacks  a  soul.  And  that  other  soulless  creature — her  also  have 
I  often  cursed — that  Madeleine,  to  whom  I  now  owe  my  happiness, 
since  it  was  she  who  caused  thy  death. 

"  Come,  let  us  depart  together  for  that  peerless  Florence.  Thou 
shalt  dwell  with  me  at  San  Lorenzo ;  for  knowest  thou  not  that  the 
dead  loved  of  the  gods  are  transformed  into  beautiful  statues,  and  the 
artist  who  believes  he  fashions  these  lovely  forms  with  mallet  and 
chisel  is  only  the  victim  of  an  illusion — is  naught  but  an  instrument 
in  the  hands  of  an  all-powerful  god  ? 

"  Come !  We  shall  thrust  an  arrow  into  the  wound  in  thy  breast, 
and  thou  shalt  be  called  St.  Sebastian.  There  is  an  empty  niche 
just  by  my  own,  and  we  shall  see  each  other  always.  During  the 
day,  it  is  true,  we  statues  must  rest  in  our  places  because  of  the  trav- 
ellers who  come  to  visit  us;  but  it  is  delightfully  cool  in  these  old 


MADELEINE  AND  BERTHA.  405 

churches,  with  their  great  thick  walls.  And  when  night  is  come,  we 
do  as  we  please. 

"  We  shall  wander  in  the  moonlight  among  the  monuments  of  the 
flowery  city,  in  sacred  churches,  and  under  tranquil  cloisters ;  at  Santa 
Maria  Novella,  under  the  dome  of  Brunelleschi,  in  the  tower  of  Giotto 
— that  gem  of  mosaic ;  at  Santa  Croce,  among  the  illustrious  dead. 

"  We  shall  see  again  the  pictures  of  the  Uffizi  and  of  the  Pitti 
Palace ;  we  shall  talk  with  our  sister  statues ;  we  shall  spend  many 
nights  under  the  Loggia  de  Lanzi  in  company  with  Perseus ;  we  shall 
enter  into  comradeship  with  the  Night,  who  ponders  so  sadly  before  the 
tomb  of  the  Medici.  We  shall  stroll  in  disguise  through  the  squares 
and  promenades — at  the  Palazzo  Yecchio,  at  the  Signoria,  at  the  Cas- 
cine,  and  beside  the  yellow  Arno.  We  shall  go  out  into  the  country, 
to  Fiesole,  and  even  to  Camaldules — I  clinging  to  thy  arm.  And 
when  thou  art  wearied  with  walking,  thou  shalt  cling  about  my  neck, 
and  I  will  open  my  great  wings." 

The  music  of  that  superhuman  voice  at  once  lulled  and  enraptured 
me ;  and  a  new  life,  more  subtile  than  the  old,  was  gently  distilled 
through  my  frozen  limbs.  Now  I  could  move  my  hand;  I  could 
move  my  eyes.  Oh,  wonder !  my  breast,  my  arms,  my  whole  body 
was  stripped  of  its  raiment,  and  my  flesh  was  changed  to  the  most 
delicate  and  spotless  marble  ! 

And  Bertha,  leaning  over  my  couch,  clasped  me  in  her  arms  and 
lifted  me  without  an  effort.  My  head  rested  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
her  mouth  that  was  without  breath  she  pressed  closely  to  my  marble 
lips. 

"  Come,"  she  murmured ;  "  I  love  thee !    I  am  thine  for  eternity ! " 

Then,  opening  her  archangel  wings,  she  bore  me  through  the  sky 
towards  the  Orient  where  the  night  was  already  paling  into  dawn. 

(Englished  by  B.  A.  F.) 


LAMENTATIONS   OF  JEREMIAH  JOHNSON. 

BY  KUTH  McENERY  STUART. 

[  RUTH  (McENERY)  STUART  has,  through  the  publication  of  her  Golden  Wedding, 
and  Other  Tales  (1893),  won  for  herself  a  national  reputation  as  a  master  of  dialect. 
Born  in  Avoyelles  Parish,  La.,  she  was  educated,  for  the  most  part,  in  New  Orleans, 
In  1879  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Alfred  Odin  Stuart,  a  well-known  planter  of  Wash- 
ington, Ark.,  who  died  a  few  years  afterwards.  In  1892  Mrs.  Stuart  took  up  her  resi- 
dence in  New  York  City,  where  she  was  for  some  time  editor  of  Harper's  Bazar.] 

IT  was  a  hot  day  in  August.  Groups  of  cattle  stood  about  in  shady 
spots  chewing  their  cuds,  gazing  out  with  mild  resignation  upon  the 
gleaming  field.  Horses  here  and  there  rolled  in  the  grass  to  cool  them- 
selves ;  restless  hogs  moved  from  one  mud  puddle  to  another,  grunting 
a  protest  against  the  rising  mercury  ;  noisy  hens,  settling  themselves 
about  in  gossipy  squads  under  the  barnhouse  floor,  chattered  as  they 
scratched  down  into  the  substratum  of  moist  sand  for  cooler  spots  for 
their  feathered  breasts.  Such  was  the  picture  in  Judge  Williams's  barn- 
yard on  this  particular  August  day. 

At  the  extreme  end  of  the  enclosure,  where  a  little  branch  wound 
its  way  beneath  the  shade  of  a  sweet-gum  tree,  a  flock  of  puddle  ducks 
floated  about  in  the  shadow ;  and  here,  on  the  grassy  bank,  a  fat  black 
woman  stood  before  a  row  of  tubs,  washing.  Across  the  creek,  and  it 
was  only  a  step,  and  beyond  a  wild-rose  hedge,  quite  out  of  sight, 
perched  upon  the  top  crossing  of  a  rail  fence,  on  guard  over  the  judge's 
family  washing,  which  lay  bleaching  in  the  sun,  was  the  subject  of 
this  sketch — Lamentations  of  Jeremiah  Johnson. 

Out  in  the  full  glare  of  the  August  sun  he  sat,  with  head  sunburned 
and  bare.  He  was  black,  tall,  lank,  and — unpretty,  to  put  it  mildly  ; 
and  he  wore  to-day  a  single  garment  which  partly  covered,  but  did  not 
ornament,  his  homely  person.  A  yelloAV  calico  dress,  buttoned  (or 
rather  unbuttoned)  behind,  and  caught  by  a  rusty  pin  midway  between 
neck  and  waist,  boasted  a  long  skirt  which  fell  nearly  to  his  feet  when 
he  stood,  but  now,  lifted  by  his  projecting  knees,  it  fell  in  foliated 
curves,  from  which  the  slender  black  legs  dangled  as  dark  stamens 
project  from  the  yellow  calyx  of  the  marsh-lily. 

Lamentations  was  now  twelve  years  old,  and  yet,  although  he  was 

*  [From  A  GoldenWedding,  and  Other  Tales  (Harper  Bros.,  publishers).  Included 
in  The  Louisiana  Dome  Book  by  special  arrangement.] 


RUTH    MCENERV    STUART. 


LAMENTATIONS  OF  JEREMIAH  JOHNSON.  407 

the  only  child  of  his  mother,  he  had  never  possessed  a  masculine  gar- 
ment of  any  description.  He  was  the  last  and  only  survivor  of  a  family 
of  ten  children,  and  as  the  others  had  all  been  daughters,  who  had  died 
at  various  ages  from  infancy  up  to  fifteen  years,  there  were  feminine 
garments  of  assorted  sizes  awaiting  him  at  his  birth,  from  the  guinea- 
blue  baby -frocks  to  the  large  dresses  of  homespun  which  lay  folded 
away  in  his  mother's  press,  an  inheritance  into  which  he  was  slowly 
and  surely  growing,  and  from  which  he  would  fain  have  held  back,  if 
there  had  been  any  relief  at  the  other  end ;  but  Lamentations  saw 
that  the  only  way  out  of  this  dilemma  was  through  it,  and  so,  if  he 
prayed  at  all,  he  prayed  to  grow. 

"  Ef  I  could  jes  grow  past  dem  gal  frocks,  I'd  be  willin'  ter  die  de 
nex'  minute,  'caze  den  I  could  die  like  what  I  is,  an'  Aspect  myself  as  I 
on'y  kin  'spect  myself  in  breeches !  I  ain't  nuver  gwine  ter  git  no 
ambitioms  nor  no  mannishness  s'long's  I  got  ter  roam  roun'  in  dese  heah 
yaller-buff  gal  cloe's  !  " 

In  this  fashion  Lamentations  was  wont  to  give  vent  to  his  feelings 
on  the  subject  of  his  attire ;  but  he  protested  secretly,  as  he  found  him- 
self the  worse  always  for  any  open  rebellion,  his  mother  often  beating 
him,  and  declaring  that  he  was  "  dat  proud,  dat  he  was  a  reg'lar  old 
maid,"  and  that  "  what  was  good  enough  for  the  angels  in  HeaVn  was 
good  enough  for  him."  This  allusion  to  his  departed  sisters  generally 
worked  her  up  to  the  whipping  point,  and  so  Lamentations  kept  a  dis- 
creet silence,  though  he  rebelled  in  secret. 

Lamentations'  parents,  Antony  and  Priscilla,  had  been  a  worldly 
pair  in  their  youth,  and  Antony  regarded  the  birth  and  death  of  nine 
daughters  consecutively  as  a  visitation  of  Providence  for  their  early 
sins. 

"  It  shorely  is  a  visitation!,  an'  a  double  visitation!,"  he  had  lamented. 
"  Fust  an'  fo'most,  de  bare  fac'  o'  havin'  nine  gals  han'-runnin'  is  a 
visitation! ;  an'  secon'  and  hin'most,  de  losin'  ob  'em  arter  you  is  got 
'em  is  a  double  correction!  wid  de  scourgin'  rod." 

One  evening  Antony  and  Priscilla  sat  inside  their  cabin  door.  It 
was  Sunday,  and  they  had  been  to  meeting.  On  the  Sunday  before, 
they  had  buried  their  last  child,  the  ninth. 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  the  hill,  and  casting  a  last  ray  over  the 
little  cemetery  at  its  foot,  brought  into  clear  view  the  row  of  graves 
that  held  the  records  of  their  many  losses. 

Antony  gazed  intently  at  them  for  some  time.  Finally  he  said  : 
"  P'cilla,  I  b'lieve  dat  the  visitatiom's  done  finished !  I  don't  b'lieve 
Gord's  gwine  ter  give  an'  teck  no  mo'  gals  ! " 

"  Huccome  you  ca'culatin'  so  free,  I  like  ter  know  ? "  said  his 
wife. 


408  FICTION. 

"  Well,  I's  been  obserbin',  an'  a-speculatin' ;  an'  a-settin  heah 
a-studyin',  I's  come  ter  dis  conclusion!  "- 

"  What  conclusion!  is  you  come  ter,  Antony  ? " 

"  I  come  ter  dis  conclusion! — dat  nine  am  de  fatal  flggur.  Now 
you  jes  lis'n  ter  me  !  Look  at  de  signs  o'  de  nines  !  " 

"  I  knows  de  signs  o'  de  nines,"  interrupted  Priscilla. 

"  What  signs  you  know  ?  " 

"  G'way  f'om  heah,  Antony  !  You  reckin  'caze  I  ain't  learned  in 
the  books  dat  I  'ain't  got  no  education! !  Even  a  yo'ng  kitten,  what 
is  got  de  leastest  sense  in  all  creatiom,  is  got  sense  enough  not  ter  try 
ter  open  hits  eyes  on  dis  sinful  worl'  befo'  de  nine  days  o'  darkness  is 
out." 

" '  De  nine  days  o'  darkness  ! '  Yer  jes  struck  it  right  dar,  P'cilla. 
Now  we's  all  jes  de  same  as  new-borned  kittens  befo'  Gord.  In  fact 
we  ain't  'spornserble  fo'  not  bein*  kittens,  an'  new-born,  an'  bline  at 
dat.  Now,  jes  fo'  de  sake  o'  de  argimentatiom  o'  de  subjec',  let's  us 
supposin'  dat  all  de  worl'  is  new-borned  kittens,  den  it  f  oilers,  in  co'se, 
dat  all  de  worl'  is  borned  bline,  which  is  de  case,  bein'  borned  in  a  state 
o'  sin  an  mizry.  Ain't  dat  so  ? " 

"  You  goes  so  fas'  I  kyan't  keep  up  wid  yer,  Antony.  Say  all  dat 
ag'in.  I  ain't  a-gwine  ter  give  in  ter  nut'n'  what  mecks  me  out  no 
varmint,  'less'n  I  sees  de  proof,  ef  you  is  willin'  ter  argify  yo'se'f  inter 
a  torm-cat." 

"  Hush,  P'cilla.  You's  a-runnin'  away  wid  dis  subjec'  jes  de  same's 
a  cat  runs  away  wid  a  mouse.  Now  you  lis'n  ter  me,  'spornserble,  not 
fo'  de  callin'  o'  no  names,  which  I  ain't  a-doin',  but  fo'  de  sake  o'  de 
substantiation!  o'  de  proof." 

"  Substantiation  of  the  proof  "  was  too  much  for  Priscilla.  The 
words  were  well  chosen,  and  gained  her  respectful  attention,  while 
Antony  slowly  repeated  his  argument,  and  in  a  moment  she  had 
agreed  that  all  men  were  "jes  de  same  as  new-borned  kittens  befo' 
Gord." 

"  Well,"  said  Antony,  "  dat's  a  fixed  fac'.  Now,  ef  we's  de  same  as 
new-borned  kittens,  don't  you  see  dat  we's  got  ter  go  froo  our  nine 
days  o'  darkness  befo'  we  comes  out  in  de  light  ? " 

Priscilla  saw  it. 

"  Well,  now,  ain't  de  losin'  of  a  baby,  even  ef  'tis  a  gal  baby — ain't 
dat  a  day  o'  darkness  ? " 

"  Dat's  so,"  said  Priscilla. 

"  An'  ain't  a-losin'  nine  ob  'em  goin'  froo  nine  days  o*  darkness  f  " 

Priscilla  raised  up  her  face  and  assented  respectfully.  She  was 
convinced. 

"  Now,  look  a-heah  ! "  Antony  continued.     "  We's  done  passed  froo 


LAMENTATIONS  OF  JEREMIAH  JOHNSON.  409 

de  darkness,  an'  my  b'lief  is  dat  Gord's  gwine  ter  raise  de  visitatiom 
an'  show  us  de  light — dat  is,  if  we  ac's  'spornserble." 

"  Antony  ! " 

"  What  yer  want,  P'cilla  ? " 

Priscilla  eyed  him  askance  as  she  said,  "  You  talks  like  you's  gitt'n' 
'ligion!" 

"  I  ain't  a-sayin'  I's  gitt'n'  'ligion,  P'cilla,  but  I's  a-speakin'  f  oin  de 
innermos' nesses  ob  my  heart." 

"  Antony  ! " 

"  What  yer  want,  P'cilla  ? " 

His  wife  smiled  faintly  as  she  replied,  "  De  time  I'll  b'lieve  you's 
got  'ligion  '11  be  de  time  yer  gits  de  spring-chicken  honger  an'  stays  in 
de  baid  all  night  an'  nuver  bodders  'long  o'  no  hainrooses !  " 

Antony  did  not  join  in  the  laugh  that  followed  this,  but  said  seri- 
ously :  "  You  is  a  awful  game-maker,  P'cilla,  an'  I  ain't  a-denyin'  dat 
I's  gi'n  yer  plenty  o'  'casion  ter  meek  game  o'  me.  But  look  heah  !  " 

He  rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  and  pointing  to  the  little  row  of 
graves,  now  barely  visible  in  the  approaching  twilight,  he  said :  "  Look 
a-heah  !  A-standin'  heah  to-night,  a-p'intin'  ter  dat  row  o'  gal  graves 
on  de  hill-side  yonder,  each  one  ob  'em  which  holds  a  sign  an'  a  symbol 
ob  a  double  visitatiom,  in  de  givin'  an'  de  teckin'  ob  a  gal  chile,  I  stan' 
up  an'  say  befo'  Gord,  dat  ef  he  holps  me,  I's  a-gwine  ter  ac'  'spornser- 
ble  an'  opright,  befo'  anudder  nine  graves  gits  a  start  on  us,  becaze 
Gord  don't  do  nut'n'  by  halves,  an'  ef  he's  started  a-chastisin'  us  by 
de  fatal  nines,  he  ain't  a-gwine  ter  back  down  on  it !  " 

Priscilla  glanced  toward  the  row  of  graves  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 
Then,  slowly  turning  from  her  husband,  she  opened  the  door  of  a  safe 
at  her  side,  and  taking  from  it  a  tin  plate  of  cold  bacon  and  greens, 
and  reseating  herself  with  it  on  her  lap,  she  began  to  eat  them,  raising 
the  dark  green  shreds  with  her  fingers  into  the  air  above  her  head, 
and  slowly  lowering  them  into  her  capacious  mouth.  Priscilla  was  of 
the  earth,  earthy.  She  had  mourned  heartily  and  boisterously  over 
each  of  her  nine  bereavements ;  but  her  bosom  Avas  not  the  home  of 
sorrow,  and  when  a  grief  fell  into  it,  it  was  as  an  acid  falling  into  an 
alkali.  The  effect  was  effervescent,  evanescent,  and  when  once  the 
bubbling  ceased,  the  same  acid  could  not  stir  it  again. 

She  grew  serious  at  mention  of  her  dead  children,  and  ate  the 
flabby  garlands  of  greens  in  grim  silence,  chewing  meditatively,  and 
ruminating  almost  sadly  over  each  mouthful  before  elevating  another 
for  inspection  and  consumption. 

It  was  in  the  spring  following  this  that  to  the  house  of  Antony  and 
Priscilla  came  a  little  son.  Antony  was  in  the  field  "chopping 
cotton"  when  the  news  came  to  him.  He  behaved  with  strange 


410  FICTION. 

excitement  on  this  occasion,  dropping  his  hoe  as  he  exclaimed  :  "  De 
visitatiom's  done  h'isted  !  Glory  be  to  Gord !  "  and  on  the  Sunday 
following  he  did  what,  notwithstanding  his  reformed  life,  he  had 
never  done  before.  He  made  a  public  profession  of  religion,  and,  in 
the  language  of  Brother  Williamson,  the  officiating  minister,  "  Cornse- 
crated  hissef  and  all  o'  hisn  to  de  service  o'  de  Lord  !  " 

Antony  expressed  great  concern  as  to  the  selection  of  a  name  for 
his  son.  It  must  be  a  Bible  name — a  name  that  should  be  an  inspira- 
tion to  the  lad  as  well  as  a  certificate  of  his  father's  piety. 

Brother  Williamson  suggested  the  names  of  the  Gospels,  but  Antony 
objected.  Matthews  and  Johns  were  disgracing  the  saints  all  over  the 
country  now,  "  and,"  he  contended,  "  John  Johnson  wouldn't  do  no- 
how, 'caze  hit  soun's  like  a  pusson's  a-stammerm',  an'  jes  as  sho  as  I'd 
call  John  Johnson,  I'd  git  ter  Johnin'  an'  couldn't  stop.  ISTo,  don't 
gimme  none  o'  dem  stutterin'  names !  " 

"  How  'bout  Mark  ? "  ventured  Williamson. 

"  Mark — Mark,"  he  repeated  reflectively, "  a  black  Mark  ?  Don't  you 
know,  Brer  Williamson,  dat  a  black  mark  nuver  stan's  for  no  good  ? " 

"  Dat's  so — looking  at  it  dat-a-way.  Dat's  so.  Well,  what  yer  say 
to  Luke?" 

"  No,  sir  !  "  he  quickly  replied.  "  Ain't  you  jes  preached  las'  Sun- 
day ag'in  Lukewarm  Christians  ?  Dat  Avon't  do." 

Williamson  hesitated  ;  then,  counting  on  his  fingers,  he  slowly 
said  :  "  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  John,  Acts — Acts  is  a  good  name,  Brer 
Johnson  ;  s'posin'  yer  names  his  name  Acts  ?  " 

Antony  hesitated.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  energy  in  the  name 
— even  a  hint  of  good  works ;  still  he  did  not  seem  quite  to  like  it. 
Finally  he  said  :  "  I  did  know  a  man  once-t  what  named  his  boy  Ac's, 
but  he  come  ter  it  reg'lar.  He  had  all  o'  Ac's's  pardners  hand-runnin' 
— Maffew,  Mark,  Luke,  an'  John  ;  an'  hit  seems  ter  me  like  goin' 
backward,  somehow — like  turnin'  de  'postles  catawarmosed,  an'  treatin' 
'em  onrespecf  ul,  ter  name  de  fust  boy  Ac's.  De  fac'  is,  Brer  William- 
son, hit  looks  ter  me  kind  o'  deceitful  ter  do  dat — hit's  like  sneaking 
up  berhindt  'em  like,  an'  Maffew  an'  Mark  an'  Luke  an'  John  would 
somehow  be  slighted  ! — an'  besides,  it  don't  seem  as  I's  ezzacly  got  a 
right  ter  fetch  Ac's  in  heah,  berhindt  a  whole  passel  o'  Callines  an' 
M'rias  an'  sech.  No ;  I  wants  ter  fine  a  name  what  stan's  ter  hitse'f 
like — what  I  could  sort  o'  teck  liberties  wid  movin'  outn  its  place,  one 
dat  don't  b'long  ter  no  crowd." 

The  preacher  ventured  several  other  suggestions,  but  none  seemed 
to  suit. 

Priscilla,  with  wifely  devotion,  wished  to  call  the  boy  Antony,  but 
to  this  he  would  not  listen. 


LAMENTATIONS  OF  JEREMIAH  JOHNSON.  411 

"  No,  no,"  he  protested ;  "  my  name  ain't  clean  enough.  Hit's  been 
mixed  up  wid  too  much  devilmint  ter  fit  clat  little  angel  o'  light.  Ef 
I  kin  wuck  off  all  de  stains  what's  on  it  by  de  time  he's  obleeged  ter 
ca'y  de  Johnson  part  o'  it  out  inter  de  worl',  I'll  praise  Gord." 

The  babe  was  nameless  for  a  month. 

Finally,  one  Sunday,  Antony  came  home  from  church  jubilant. 
He  had  found  the  name  to  suit  his  fancy.  The  preacher  had  read  it 
out  of  the  Bible,  and  it  had  a  sound  of  dignity  that  pleased  him.  It 
seemed  to  be  filled  with  exhortation  and  warning  and  spirituality. 
It  was  "  Lamentations  of  Jeremiah." 

The  little  babe  winced  visibly  when,  on  the  next  Sabbath,  the 
water  of  baptism  was  sprinkled  on  his  unconscious  head,  and  he 
became,  whether  he  willed  it  or  no,  "  Lamentations  of  Jeremiah  John- 
son." 

No  one  ever  had  occasion  to  doubt  the  sincerity  of  Antony's  con- 
version. It  was  a  quiet  facing  about,  an  unemotional  turning  from 
sinful  ways  to  a  pure  life.  At  first,  the  good  people  in  the  church 
were  hardly  satisfied  with  the  "  speritual  evidences  "  in  his  case.  They 
were  disappointed.  The  man  who  had  been  the  best  dancer  of  the 
"  double  twis',"  and  could  beat  every  man  in  the  county  "  cutting  the 
pigeon  wing,"  would  certainly  throw  some  of  this  muscular  vigor  into 
the  new  life,  and  they  had  looked  for  great  gymnastic  spiritual  mani- 
festations, so  to  speak,  in  his  conversion. 

Perhaps  religion  in  his  case  would  even  hallow  the  "  pigeon  wing," 
and  sanctify  the  "  double  twis'  " — who  knew  ?  If  Antony  had  worn 
a  dazed  visage  and  danced  down  the  middle  aisle  in  an  extravagant 
"  fling,"  his  would  have  been  considered  a  more  pronounced  conver- 
sion. One  of  the  brothers  even  whispered  his  disappointment-  in 
church  to  a  neighbor.  "  I  shorely  is  disapp'inted,"  he  said.  "  I 
'lowed  dat  maybe  Brer  Johnson  would  sort  o'  stipulate  inter  grace." 
But  Brer  Johnson  did  not  "skipulate."  There  was  nothing  sensa- 
tional about  his  case. 

For  eleven  years  Antony  was  a  quiet,  consistent  Christian  member 
of  Chinquepin  Chapel,  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  light  of  his  quiet 
life  did  more  to  reform  the  morals  of  the  congregation  and  to  raise 
the  standard  of  personal  piety  among  them  than  did  all  the  shouting 
and  exhorting  done  in  the  chapel  during  that  time ;  and  his  death, 
occurring  when  Lamentations  was  eleven  years  old,  produced  a  pro- 
found sensation.  It  was  as  the  last  years  of  his  life  had  been — full  of 
peace  and  a  holy  trust.  The  only  time  he  was  ever  known  to  shout 
was  with  his  passing  breath,  when,  having  invoked  God's  blessing  on 
his  little  son,  his  spirit  passed  out  through  a  smile  on  his  lips,  and  he 
met  the  grim  messenger  with  a  clear  though  faint  "  Praise  Gord !  " 


412  FICTION. 

After  Antony's  death,  Priscilla  gave  up  "  crap-raisin'  "  and  moved 
to  town.  She  was  a  typical  negro — improvident,  emotional,  gossipy, 
kind-hearted,  high-tempered,  vain,  dishonest,  idle,  working  two  or 
three  days  in  each  week  and  "  res'n'  up  "  the  remainder,  with  always 
a  healthy  appetite  and  a  "  mizry  in  de  bre's'." 

She  had  professed  conversion  several  times,  and  as  often  become  a 
backslider.  The  tips  of  her  fingers  led  her  easily  into  sin  by  fastening 
themselves  to  her  neighbors'  goods ;  but  this  never  brought  her  into 
open  shame,  as  did  the  tips  of  her  toes  /  for  Priscilla  was  an  inveterate 
dancer,  and,  if  a  revival  or  camp-meeting  drew  her  into  the  church, 
it  took  only  a  string  band  or  a  fiddle  to  work  her  ruin.  Indeed,  it 
became  a  by-word  that  "  Sister  Johnson  shouted  all  winter  and  danced 
out  o'  grace  at  every  May-day  picnic." 

Such  was  Lamentations'  mother.  During  the  year  of  her  widow- 
hood, as  a  visible  means  of  support,  she  had  done  the  family  washing 
for  Judge  Williams  and  his  wife  ;  and  though  the  pay  for  so  small  an 
amount  of  work  was  proportionately  small,  there  were  perquisites,  in 
the  shape  of  a  cabin  rent  free,  "  cold  victuals,"  and  sundry  opportuni- 
ties for  exercising  the  weakness  of  her  finger-tips,  which  made  the 
situation  a  desirable  one.  Her  cabin — assigned  to  her  on  account  of 
its  proximity  to  the  creek  from  which  she  washed — stood  also  conven- 
iently near  the  hen-house  on  one  side  and  the  vegetable  garden  on  the 
other,  while  its  one  window  opened  over  that  dazzling,  cooling,  glow- 
ing, seductive  temptation  to  the  flesh — the  watermelon  patch  ;  and  so, 
when  Priscilla  said  that  "  Gord  had  been  good  to  her,  and  she  had  no 
'casion  to  complain,"  she  meant  it. 

Lamentations,  as  we  have  said,  was  twelve  years  old  when  this 
story  begins.  Tall,  black,  unkempt,  arrayed  in  ill-fitting  frocks,  with 
a  falsetto  voice  and  a  stammering  tongue,  he  was  not  a  thing  of 
beauty;  neither  was  he  counted  a  joy,  but  rather  a  sorrow,  in  the 
village  of  Washington,  Arkansas,  in  which  he  lived.  If  suspicion  of 
any  sort  fell  upon  him,  his  appearance  went  far  toward  its  confirma- 
tion, not  only  on  account  of  his  ugliness  of  person,  but  his  peculiar 
dress  gave  him  a  sort  of  nondescript  character,  and  seemed  to  brand 
him  as  an  evil  spirit. 

Priscilla' s  one  maternal  act  had  been  sending  him  to  school.  The 
four  months  of  tuition  each  year  had  been  enough  to  make  him  a  fair 
scholar,  as  scholarship  went  in  the  negro  free  school  of  Washington. 
His  education  was  the  one  thing  about  him  that  his  mother  respected. 

It  was  vacation  now. 

As  he  sat  on  guard  to-day  in  the  crotch  of  the  fence,  he  seemed  to 
fall  into  deep  meditation.  Ever  and  anon  he  cast  an  anxious  glance 
in  the  direction  of  the  sweet-gum  tree,  where,  though  out  of  sight,  he 


LAMENTATIONS  OF  JEREMIAH  JOHNSON.  413 

knew  his  mother  stood ;  then  he  would  gaze  wistfully  at  a  pair  of 
trousers  which  lay  bleaching  on  the  grass.  He  was  contemplating 
doing  something  which  he  feared  to  attempt. 

"  Ef  mammy  was  on'y  a-washin'  on  de  washboa'd,  'stid  o'  renchin' 
an'  a-starchin',  I  could  lis'en  an'  keep  up  wid  her,"  he  said.  Finally, 
however,  the  temptation  became  too  great.  He  slid  quickly  down 
from  the  fence,  dropped  the  yellow  dress  on  the  ground,  and  pro- 
ceeded hastily  to  array  himself  in  the  judge's  pantaloons,  suspending 
them  from  the  shoulders  by  means  of  the  twine  which  he  took  from 
his  whip. 

As  the  old  judge  was  a  short  and  over-fat  man,  the  trousers  were 
not  much  in  the  way  of  a  fit.  He  now  selected  a  vest  from  the 
ground,  slipped  his  long  black  arms  through  the  capacious  arm-holes, 
buttoned  it  down  the  front,  and,  with  his  thumbs  stuck  into  the 
pockets,  began  to  strut  up  and  down,  surveying  himself  with  evident 
pride.  Oh,  for  a  mirror !  He  longed  to  behold  himself  in  masculine 
attire.  Glancing  at  the  sun,  he  shifted  his  position,  trying  to  see  his 
own  shadow,  but  the  midday  hour  denied  him  even  this  unsubstantial 
gratification;  and  so,  satisfying  himself  with  such  a  survey  as  he 
could  get  of  his  outline,  he  resumed  his  promenade,  and  began  a  half- 
audible  soliloquy :  "  Dey  ain't  no  use  o'  talkin' !  mannishness  comes 
wid  breeches  !  Dey  sort  o'  kin.  I  feels  like  I  mought  be  de  jedge  dis 
minute.  I  shorely  could  'spect  myself  in  dese  heah  breeches,  even  ef 
dey  warn't  no  tighter' n  dese,  jes  so  dey  had  laigs,  an'  was  s'pendered 
up  wid  galluses !  I  could  ac'  like  a  genterman ;  an'  as  I  **«,  I  ain't 
nut'n'  an'  nobody.  Ef  I  jes  had  sech  as  dese,  I  wouldn't  be  obleegecl 
ter  be  a-spittin'  terbacker  an'  a-sayin'  cuss-words  jes  ter  show  what  I 
is,  like  I  does.  I  mought  have  some  dignificatioms  an'  mannerfica- 
tioms  an' " — 

His  soliloquy  was  brought  to  a  sudden  close  by  a  loud  scream  from 
the  direction  of  the  sweet-gum  tree.  It  was  his  mother's  voice.  Lam- 
entations had  become  so  absorbed  in  self -contemplation  that  a  drove 
of  hogs  had  passed  behind  him  unobserved,  leaving  their  footprints  on 
the  bleaching  clothes. 

Their  only  exit  lay  at  the  end  of  the  Cherokee  hedge,  a  point  near 
Priscilla,  and  she  had  taken  the  alarm.  She  knew  that  their  familiar 
porcine  hieroglyphs  decorated  her  precious  week's  washing. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Lamentations  turned  and  saw  it  all.  He 
was  terror-stricken.  His  first  impulse  was  to  get  out  of  the  judge's 
clothing,  but  haste  embarrassed  his  motions.  The  twine  "  galluses  " 
were  knotted. 

Finally,  just  as  his  mother  emerged  from  behind  the  hedge,  the 
judge's  apparel  fell  to  the  ground,  and  he  stood  before  her  trembling 


414  FICTION. 

— a  pitiful  nude  statue  of  terror.  His  yellow  dress  lay  just  behind 
him.  To  take  a  backward  step  would  expose  the  judge's  trousers. 
Nearer  and  nearer  came  his  mother ;  still  Lamentations  moved  not, 
neither  did  he  speak.  Finally  Priscilla  came  to  a  halt,  and  looking  at 
him  in  mingled  anger  and  alarm,  she  began : 

"  Fo'  Gord's  sake,  what  is  you  a-doin',  a-standin'  up  heah  in  yo' 
skin,  Lamentations  o'  Jeremiah  Johnson  ? " 

Lamentations  began  to  cry.  This  indication  of  natural  emotion 
fanned  the  flame  of  her  ire,  and  she  continued  : 

"  You  is  de  onsettledes',  7w?-'countes',  beatenes',  rapscalliones'  nigger 
dat  ever  helped  a  po'  sinner  ter  backslide !  You  'ain't  got  no  mo' 
sperit  'n  a  suck-aig  dorg  !  What  in  kingdom  come  is  you  been  doin'  ? " 
She  approached  a  step  nearer.  "  Is  you  gwine  ter  speak,  you  black 
buzzard  ? " 

Lamentations  was  too  much  frightened  to  speak.  He  made  a  des- 
perate leap  in  the  direction  of  the  yellow  dress.  Priscilla,  thinking 
he  was  trying  to  escape,  started  and  caught  him.  One  of  his  feet  had 
caught  in  the  twine,  and  the  judge's  nether  garments  trailed  after 
him,  becoming  more  and  more  entangled  about  his  legs  as  he  danced 
around  his  mother,  while  she  laid  on  blows  thick  and  fast.  Oh,  the 
lamentations  of  Lamentations !  As  the  pantaloons,  flying  around, 
brought  their  own  explanation,  she  became  more  and  more  excited, 
and  beat  him  without  mercy.  It  made  no  difference  which  way  he 
turned.  Every  position  presented  a  bare  suggestion  for  another  blow, 
and  it  came  every  time. 

Whether  this  beating  provoked  him  to  wrath,  or  his  brief  experi- 
ence in  male  apparel  wrought  an  inspiration,  we  cannot  say ;  but  a 
change  came  over  Lamentations  from  this  time.  He  became  des- 
perate, and  various  depredations  on  hen-roosts  and  melon-patches, 
even  beyond  the  judge's  domain,  were  laid  at  his  door.  The  wearer 
of  the  yellow  dress  became  a  familiar  figure  in  court,  but  somehow 
he  always  managed  to  escape  conviction.  Finally,  however,  justice 
sought  and  found  him  at  home. 

A  pair  of  young  Plymouth  Eock  hens  disappeared  one  night  from 
the  roost ;  and  suspicion,  confirmed  by  fresh  footprints  between  the 
cabin  and  hen-house,  and  feathers  corresponding  with  those  of  the 
missing  chickens  hidden  in  Priscilla's  room,  fell  on  the  occupants  of 
the  cabin. 

The  footprints  were  Lamentations' s,  but  his  mother  had  hidden  the 
feathers. 

On  inquiry,  it  transpired  that,  the  night  before,  Priscilla  had  enter- 
tained a  crowd  of  her  church  people  on  what  she  had  been  pleased 
to  call  "  tucky-hain."  Now,  there  were  no  turkey-hens  on  the  prem- 


LAMENTATIONS  OF  JEREMIAH  JOHNSON.  415 

ises,  and  two  fine  Plymouth  Kocks,  nearly  as  large,  were  missing. 
Circumstantial  evidence  against  them  was  strong. 

The  judge  had  mother  and  son  arrested  and  brought  into  court— 
his  own  court. 

Priscilla  was  caUed  up  first.  She  unblushingly  denied  the  accusa- 
tion in  toto,  even  weeping  over  the  contemplation  of  such  ingratitude 
as  so  base  a  theft  would  show.  She  dwelt  at  length  upon  the  kind- 
nesses they  daily  received  from  the  judge's  family,  and  wept  afresh 
over  the  sad  lot  of  "  a  po'  widderless  'oman  an'  a  orphanless  boy,  wid 
nobody  ter  pertect  'em  'less'n  it  was  de  jedge,  what  knowed  her  po' 
daid  husband,"  etc.  Finally  she  swore  to  the  truth  of  all  this,  and 
Lamentations  was  called. 

A  murmur  of  suppressed  mirth  ran  through  the  court  as  the  tall, 
gaunt  wearer  of  a  white  Swiss  dress  stalked  gawkily  upon  the  stand. 
Priscilla  meant  that  her  son  should  look  his  best  on  this  important 
occasion,  and  had  arrayed  him  in  the  Sunday  frock  of  one  of  his 
departed  sisters.  It  had  belonged  to  one  someAvhat  younger  than 
Lamentations,  and  so  the  fluted  ruffles  came  just  to  the  knees,  which, 
with  his  legs  and  feet,  were  bare.  His  sunburned  hair,  usually  fluff- 
ing out  like  a  mop,  was  now  braided,  and  stood  up  in  stiff  spikes  all 
over  his  head.  He  was  nervous  and  embarrassed.  Quickly  repeating 
as  nearly  as  he  could  the  substance  of  his  mother's  testimony,  he 
offered  to  swear  to  the  truth  of  it. 

Before  presenting  the  Bible,  the  judge  took  occasion  to  say  a  word 
on  the  sanctity  of  an  oath,  and  even  spoke  kindly  to  the  boy  as  he 
made  a  brief  allusion  to  his  old  father,  Antony.  Now,  the  one  thing 
sacred  to  Lamentations  was  the  memory  of  his  father.  The  judge 
bade  him  think  well  before  laying  his  hand  on  the  Holy  Book,  and 
handed  him  the  Bible.  In  taking  it,  Lamentations's  hand  shook,  and 
it  fell  upon  the  floor.  It  fell  open.  As  the  boy  stooped  to  pick  it  up, 
he  started — took  hold  of  it — dropped  it — and  finally,  trembling  vio- 
lently from  head  to  foot,  he  approached  the  judge,  and  made  a  full 
confession  of  the  theft,  humbly  begging  that  he  would  not  spare  him, 
but  punish  him  as  he  deserved.  But  the  judge  did  spare  him,  sending 
both  boy  and  mother  home  with  only  a  wholesome  admonition. 

This  was  the  turning-point  in  Lamentations's  life. 

The  old  judge,  believing  that  his  influence  had  brought  the  confes- 
sion, took  a  new  interest  in  the  lad,  and  the  boy  in  dresses  was  called 
from  the  cabin  in  the  rear  lot  to  serve  in  the  judge's  family,  and 
arrayed,  at  the  age  of  thirteen  years,  in  his  first  pair  of  "  pants." 

Notwithstanding  many  faults  of  character,  such  as  idleness  and 
mischief,  Lamentations  never  betrayed  the  trust  of  his  benefactor.  He 
was  his  father's  son,  and  his  reformation  was  honest  and  complete. 


416  FICTION. 

But  this  was  fifteen  years  ago.  Priscilla  died  in  grace  on  the  last 
day  of  April  last  year,  and  the  May-day  picnic  was  postponed  that  all 
the  Chinqaepin  Chapel  folk  might  do  her  honor. 

Lamentations  still  holds  in  the  judge's  family  a  position  of  trust. 
He  is  now  also  the  pastor  of  Chinquepin  Chapel — loTed  by  his  people 
and  respected  by  alL 

Just  after  his  appointment  to  this  post  I  happened  to  be  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  knowing  something  of  the  young  man's  history,  I 
went  to  hear  his  inaugural  sermon.  I  was  struck  by  Ms  changed 
appearance.  Xo  longer  a  butt  of  ridicule  in  skirts  did  I  behold,  but  a 
serious  youth,  reading  from  God's  word,  and  exhorting  the  people  to 
holier  living.  Briefly  reviewing  his  life  from  his  youth  up,  he  finally 
approached  the  time  of  his  conversion. 

As  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  his  words  were  these :  "  I  was  buried 
an"  steeped  in  sin,  my  bredren,  an'  every  time  I  tried  ter  rise  an'  be  a . 
man  in  my  father's  image,  somethin'  holt  me  back,  an1  I  'lowed  'twas 
them  frocks,  which  somehow  seemed  to  keep  me  in  my  mother's  image 
— not  meanin*  no  disrespec's  ter  her,  my  bredren,  but  it  ain't  in  nature 
fur  a  man  ter  "spire  when  'pearances  is  sot  squarely  ag'in  "im ;  but  I 
say  now,  ef  dem  gal  do'es  stunted  me  in  de  sperit,  it  was  becaze  I  was 
wQlin*  "ter  &?  holt  back,  an"  wasn't  a-strivin'  ter  rise.  But,  my  dear 
bredren,  de  day  I  was  holten  down  de  strongest,  Gord  callt  me,  an'  I 
tell  yer,  my  sistren  an"  bredren,  ef  ever  a  mannish  sperit  was  holten 
down  by  raiments  an'  adornments,  my  sperit  was  cramped  dat  day  in 
dat  white  Swist  frock !  I  jes  felt  like  I  warn't  no  mo'n  one  o'  dese  heah 
sky-rockets — a  heap  o'  show-oflishness  roun'  a  little  black  stick — an'  I 
"lowed  to  myse'f  dat  I  belonged  ter  de  debble,  an'  I  was  ready  ter  say 
any  false  words  what  he  put  inter  my  mouf ,  when  dat  Bible  fell  on  de 
flo".  An'  when  I  stooped  down  ter  pick  it  up,  what  yer  reckin  I  see  I 
Bless  Gord !  I  see  my  own  name  a-*tan*inj  on  top  o*  de  page!  Yes,  my 
dear  bredren,  on  de  top,  an*  in  dem  heah  big  letters  !  Seemed  at  fust 
like  I  was  struck  Mine,  an'  I  heerd  Gord  a-callin'  my  name, l  Lamenta- 
tions o"  Jeremiah ! '  an'  de  cote-house  an'  de  jedge  an'  all  de  people 
faded  outn  my  sight,  an'  I  nuver  felt  dat  Swist  frock  no  mo'n  ef  it  had 
o'  been  breeches,  an*  I  seen  my  old  daddy  a-layin'  on  de  baid,  with  his 
white  haid  on  de  pfller,  an'  seemed  like  I  heerd  him  a-prayin'  ter  Gord 
ter  teck  an"  raise  up  dis  heah  po"  little  black  chile  ter  wuck  fo'  him, 
an'  ter  be  his  faithful  soljer  an'  servant ;  an'  oh,  my  bredren,  I  know 
den  dat  Gord  done  callt  me — done  callt  me,  an'  showed  me  my  name 
in  de  book ;  and  dar  I  stood,  a  ugly  black  varmint,  all  furbelowed  up 
in  gal  finery,  an'  chuck-full  dat  minute  c?  de  jedg<?8  dominicker  ! 
Seemed  like  I  could  see  myse'f,  an'  I  say  ter  myse'f,  *  I  ain't  fitten  ter 
'spond  ter  sech  a  call  as  dis.'  An'  a  big  lump  riz  up  in  my  froat,  big 


LAMENTATIONS  OF  JEREMIAH  JOHNSON.  417 

as  a  whole  tncky-hain,  but  I  knowed  hit  warn't  de  shubshance  o'  dafc 
dominicker  dat  was  a-chokin'  me ;  hit  was  de  shubshance  o'  sin !  Hit 
was  archokin'  me,  an'  I  spewed  it  outn  my  mouf,  an'  confessed  de  trufe, 
an'  de  lump  went  outn  my  naik,  an'  peace  riz  up  in  my  soul ! " 

The  "  Amens  \ "'  and  "  Glorys !  "  came  in  thick  and  fast  from  the 
responsive  congregation  as  Lamentations  continued  : 

"  Yes,  Gord  call-t  me,  my  bredren,  an'  showed  me  my  name  in  de 
book ;  but  whar'bouts  in  de  book  I  At  de  bottom  o'  de  page  I  Xo ; 
he  ain't  lef  me  on  de  mo'ners'  bench.  In  de  middle  o'  de  page  i  Xo ; 
he  'ain't  sot  me  in  de  raids'  o'  de  corngergatiom.  Den  whar  was  it, 
my  bredren  \  Hit  was  on  top  oj  de  page  !  Gord  done  call-t  me  to  de 
top — done  stood  me  heah  in  de  pulpit ;  an'  by  his  grace  heah  I  is !  I 
tell  yer,  my  bredren,  some  o'  dese  heah  preachers  is  gradgerated  fom 
dishere  college  an'  some  fom  dat  one,  but  Ps  gradgerated  fom  on 
high!" 

The  excitement  and  enthusiasm  were  intense  when  I  rose  and 
quietly  withdrew  from  the  chapel,  and  as  I  walked  homeward  the 
words  of  the  familiar  hymn  came  to  me: 

"  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform." 

The  good  old  man  Antony — densely  ignorant^  but  honest  in  his  con- 
viction— in  the  one  act  of  faith  that  seemed  most  to  betray  the  dark- 
ness of  his  mind,  selected  this  extraordinary  name  for  his  son,  and  this 
act  became  the  direct  means  of  his  reward,  in  calling  his  boy  from 
death  unto  life. 

I  say  this  confidently,  for,  after  the  test  of  fifteen  years,  the  man 
most  loved  among  the  people,  the  one  held  most  dear  by  the  suffering, 
the  sick,  and  the  aged  among  his  race,  but  the  one  especially  known  as 
the  champion  of  all  small  boys,  is  Lamentations  of  Jeremiah  Johnson. 


PART  V. 
POETRY. 

SECTION  I.    DKAMATIC. 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;  OR,  LOUISIANA  IN  1769. 
An  Historical  Tragedy  in  Five  Acts. 

BY   T.    WHARTON    COLLENS. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

CREOLES. 

LAFRENIERE,  VILLERE,*  AUBRY,  GARIDEL, 

ADELAIDE,  MRS.  VILLERE, 

DENOYANT,  MILHET,  MARQUIS,  CARRERE, 

SURGEON,  A  CREOLE  SOLDIER, 

A  CROWD  OF  CITIZENS. 

SPANIARDS. 

HERALD,  FIRST  JUDGE,  A  SPANISH  SOLDIER, 
A  SPANIARD,  A  SCRIBE,  RUFFIAN,  JUDGES,  SAILORS,  SOLDIERS. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  1. — A  public  place  (trees  on  the  sides,  a  church  in  the  background). 

[LAFRENIERE  enters,  holding  an  open  letter.'] 
LAF.  (refers  to  his  letter). 

'Tis  well — 'tis  well — these  things  will  serve  the  cause 
Of  Freedom ;  and  though  our  mother  spurns  us 
From  her  bosom,  we  gain  our  Liberty 
By  that  unnatural  deed.     My  country, 
My  noble  country,  yes,  thou  shalt  be  free ! 
Thou  ne'er  canst  brook  the  shame  of  slavery ; 
Thou  wilt  not  tamely  thus  be  bartered  off. 
What !  sold  like  cattle  ?— treated  with  disdain  \ 
No !  Louisiana's  sons  can  never  bear 
Such  foul  disgrace.     And  when  I'll  tell  them  all, 
Of  every  insult,  and  the  shame  which  thus 
This  reckless  King  would  heap  upon  their  heads, 
'Twill  put  a  burning  fagot  to  their  pride, 
'Twill  blow  their  indignation  into  flame ; 

*  Pronounced  Vil-ra. 


422  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

And  like  the  fire  on  our  grass-grown  plains, 

By  raging  winds  devouring  driven, 

'Twill  spread,  in  blazing  waves,  e'en  to.  the  edge 

And  utmost  limit  of  the  land  ;  and  then, 

Proud  Kings,  beware !  lest  e'en  within  the  bounds 

Of  Europe's  slave-trod  vales  the  blaze  should  catch, 

Sweep  despots  and  their  thrones  away,  and  like 

Unprofitable  weeds  consume  them  all. 

Ay  !  and  how  happy  this  occurrence ! 

'Twill  aid  my  own  ambitious  views ;  and  while 

The  cause  of  freedom  prospers,  so  shall  I. 

For  'tis  my  aim,  in  this  young  colony, 

To  be  the  first  among  the  free — to  lead 

Them  on  in  war,  and  rule  by  equal  laws 

A  land  of  liberty.     Oh !  could  I  see 

The  Independence  of  my  native  land, 

Myself  its  Liberator  and  its  Chief — 

Not  Csesar's  glory  nor  his  power  would 

One  moment  be  my  envy.     O  lovely, 

Glorious  picture  of  futurity 

Which  now  my  young  imagination  draws 

In  brilliant  hues  of  glittering  hope, 

Thou  dazzlest  e'en  thy  painter ! 

But  Villere 

Comes  not.     I  must  tell  him  all  my  plans, 
And  gain  his  sanction  to  them,  or  I  fear 
They'll  not  succeed.     In  such  respect  are  held 
His  silvered  head  and  sage  advice,  that  once 
Unto  me  his  adherence  gained,  most  sure 
The  people's  warm  approval  I'll  obtain,     . 
And  all  that  hope  doth  promise  soon  possess. 
Ah  !  but  here  comes  my  Adelaide.     O  love ! 
Thou  hast  a  power  which  we  cannot  break ! 
But  though  thy  chains  are  strong,  and  bind  us  tight, 
Yet  they  brace  us  up,  and  give  us  double  strength 
For  action  ;  and  the  bold  hero  oft  achieves 
His  noblest  deed  when  ere  the  doubtful  fight 
He  kneels  to  thee. 

{Enter  ADELAIDE.] 
ADELAIDE.  Ah,  Lafreniere, 

"What  brings  thee  out  so  soon  ?     The  god  of  day 
Hath  scarcely  risen  in  the  east,  nor  hath 
His  morning  rays  as  yet  dissolved  the  drops — 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  423 

The  diamond  drops,  which,  shaken  from  the  veil 
Of  humid  night,  are  sparkling  in  the  rose, 
Or  on  the  breast  of  some  blue  violet. 

LAF.     How  could  I  stay  at  home,  my  Adelaide, 
And,  like  an  owl,  hide  myself  from  light, 
When,  like  the  early  lark,  I  fain  would  seek, 
Impatient  to  behold,  thy  sunny  eyes,  and  bask 
Beneath  their  cheering  beams  ! 

ADE.  Nay,  but  the  owl 

Is  Wisdom's  chosen  bird.     Thou  shouldst  be  wise, 
And  copy  her. 

LAF.  I  would  be  happy  first. 

ADE.     Smooth  flatterer !     Enough  of  honeyed  words, 
Which  sportingly,  and  with  a  cruel  joy, 
Make  but  a  plaything  of  a  woman's  heart. 
Tell  me,  what  news  from  France  ?     Since  early  dawn 
My  father  seeks  thee  through  the  town.     'Tis  said 
Thou  hast  late  tidings  of  Lesassier. 

LAF.  Nay, 

Sweet  Adelaide — disturb  not  now  thy  soul 
With  cares  of  politics,  which  'tis  the  lot 
Of  womankind,  much  happier  than  our  own, 
Ne'er  to  be  troubled  with. 

ADE.  Thou  wrong' st  our  sex. 

Think  ye  that  women  have  such  hardened  souls 
As  not  to  feel  their  country's  sufferings  ? 
True,  they  mind  not  (as  do  some  silly  men) 
On  which  poor  courtier  kingly  smiles  are  turned, 
Nor  do  they  calculate  each  changing  shade 
Of  policy  of  jealous  nations  'twixt 
Each  other ;  ,but  when  a  woman  sees 
That  pending  dangers,  thickening  round, 
Threaten  the  land  where  Heaven  casts  her  lot, 
Then  is  each  throb  her  father — brother — feels 
Reechoed  in  her  breast. 

LAF.  WeU,  let  us  hence 

Unto  thy  father's  dwelling ;  as  we  go, 
Thy  gentle  ear  shall  hear  the  painful  news. 

[As  LAFRENIERE  and  ADELAIDE  go  out,  ATJBKY  enters."] 

AUBRY.     Ay,  there  they  go,  smiling  on  each  other — 
She  with  many  looks  of  tender  love, 
He  with  the  gaze  of  conquering  passion ; 
And  I  am  left  despised,  without  a  hope 


424  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

Save  that  of  dire  revenge ;  and  that  I'll  have, 

Cost  what  it  may,  ten  thousand  crimes, 

Toil,  pain,  and  years  of  time.     I'll  persevere 

Until  I  tread  upon  his  very  neck, 

Nor  yield,  though  seas  of  bitter  tears  are  shed. 

I'll  have  a  sacrifice  of  human  blood 

Unto  my  hate  paid  up.     And  am  I  wrong  ? 

He  thwarts  me  daily  at  the  council  board, 

Resists  the  plans  I  lay  to  serve  and  gain 

The  favor  of  the  Spanish  Governor. 

His  very  reputation  is  my  bane — 

It  points  invidiously  at  my  own, 

And  has  more  power  in  this  colony 

Than  I  can  claim  as  legal  Governor. 

Ha  !  here  cometh  one  I  have  enlisted 

In  my  cause,  and  who  doth  serve  me  well. 

[Enter  GARIDEL.] 

Ah,  Garidel,  I'm  glad  we  meet  to-day ! 
You  find  me  in  a  flowing  humor  for  our  work. 
Hast  thou  performed  the  charge  I  gave  thee  ? 

GARIDEL.  Yes — 

I  put  the  letter  on  her  toilet  table. 

AUB.     Well,  what  result  ? 

GAR.  None — she  has  not  seen  it. 

But  prithee,  Master  Aubry,  why  not  use 
Some  means  more  certain  in  effect  to  part 
These  foolish  lovers  ?     These  letters,  well  wrought 
And  plausible,  'tis  true,  can  they  reduce 
Love's  hottest  flame  ?     They  may  cause  some  pouting ; 
But  oaths  and  tears  soon  quell  the  anger  raised 
By  cloaked  accusers  'gainst  the  one  we  love. 

AUB.     'Tis  well  to  try  this  method  first ;  and  then, 
If  not  successful,  I  have  other  plans. 

GAR.     And  they  are  ? 

AUB.  Listen,  Garidel.     Art  thou 

An  honest  fellow,  and  can  I  be  sure 
That  if  I  give  thee  all  my  confidence, 
Thou'lt  not  deceive  me  ? 

GAR.  What,  Master  Aubry, 

And  do  you  ask  me  that  ?     But  yesterday 
We  did  acknowledge  to  each  other 
That  nature  round  our  hearts  had  wound  a  tie 
Of  sympathy.     Have  you  not  often  said, 


THE  MARTYR   PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769  425 

That,  in  the  darkness  of  my  brow,  there  was 
A  something  most  congenial  to  thyself  ? 

AUB.     But  answer,  wilt  thou  aid  me  against  VillerS, 
And  Villere's  house  to  all  extremity  ? 

GAR.  Pshaw ! 

Do  not  anger  me.     Have  I  not  advised 
The  use  of  stronger  measures  'gainst  them  ?     True, 
Villere  has  been  a  father  to  me. 
He  found  me,  when  an  infant,  in  a  ditch, 
Thrown  there  by  an  inhuman  mother. 
He  picked  me  up,  and  had  me  nursed  with  care, 
And,  cheated  by  the  fairness  of  my  skin, 
He  thought  me  one  of  Europe's  sickly  race, 
And  did  adopt  me  as  his  son,  and  strove 
To  teach  me  science  and  morality. 
But  now  I  am  among  his  servants  classed  ; 
For  soon  as  I  grew  up  my  figure  changed  ; 
And  this  black  hair,  and  eye,  and  bronzed  face 
Proclaimed  me  one  of  that  dread  tribe  of  men 
Whose  birthplace  is  the  undivided  wild, 
Whose  law  is  in  the  power  of  their  arms, 
Whose  hate  is  trusted  to  a  poisoned  knife, 
Whose  thirst  is  for  the  white  man's  blood, 
And  whose  ambition  is  to  sweep  away 
Those  pale  usurpers  of  this  land 
Who  seek  to  pen  the  freeborn  Indian  up 
And  set  a  bound'ry  to  his  roving  steps. 
Listen,  Aubry  !     I  feel  as  if  the  red  man's  God 
Had  cast  my  lot  amidst  thy  race  to  be 
An  agent  of  our  nation's  vengeance. 
Think  ye  I'll  shrink  from  such  a  sacred  task  ? 
Though  Villere  still  should  call  me  his  own  son, 
I  would  begin  with  him.     I'll  end,  perhaps, 
With  you. 

AUB.         With  me ! 

GAR.  Nay,  speak  not  of  yourself, 

But  parley  to  your  purposes.     You  have 
My  service  now ;  use  it  while  you  may. 

AUB.  (aside).     A  dreadful  fellow  this ;  but  I  must  bend 
Awhile  unto  his  temper. 
(To  GARIDEL.)  Well,  I  see 

Thou  art  the  man  I  sought  for,  Garidel. 
I'll  trust  thee  to  the  whole.     Listen  !     If  I  fail 


426  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

To  gain  my  end  by  superstition's  aid ; 

If  calumny,  with  her  venom,  don't  succeed 

In  turning  their  sweet  loves  into  bitter 

Jealousy — why,  Garidel,  I'll  then  attack 

That  very  beauty  which  enslaves  my  heart 

And  causes  all  my  pain ;  ay,  and  to  which 

Lafreniere  kneels.     I  swear  by  Heaven 

I'll  destroy  it,  and  what  /  could  not  gain 

No  other  man  shall  feast  upon.     Look  here  ! 

This  vial  holds  a  subtle  poison 

Which,  rubbed  against  the  rose  and  lily 

Of  her  face,  will  raise  it  full  of  blots 

And  biles,  ulcers  and  putrid  sores — make  her 

Disgusting  to  every  one  around  her, 

And  even  to  herself.     Tell  me ;  think  ye 

He'll  love  her  then  ? 

GAR.  (taking  the  via£).     Trust  it  to  my  hands. 
/  will  apply  it.     But  is  its  venom  sure  ? 
Say,  from  what  propitious  fiend  of  hell 
Did  you  the  drug  procure  ? 

AUB.  From  that  old  witch, 

That  bride  of  Lucifer,  the  fortune-teller 
Who  lives  midst  the  miasmas  of  the  swamp. 
Do  you  not  know  her  ? 

GAB.  No ;  but  tell  me 

How  to  find  her ;  for,  if  she  sells  such  drugs 
As  this,  her  traffic  might  be  profited 
By  my  acquaintance. 

AUB.  Near  the  rotting  trunk 

Of  that  dead  cypress  tree  which  stands, 
Like  a  giant  skeleton,  behind  the  common 
Burial  ground,  without  the  city, 
Her  hut  she  has  erected.     It  seems  a  heap 
Of  half -burned  logs,  and  boards,  and  earth 
Thrown  there  by  accident.     She  chose  the  spot 
For  it  is  solitary,  and  near  the  fens 
Where  toads,  and  snakes,  and  poisonous  weeds 
Are  trod  upon  at  every  step.     'Tis  near 
The  graves  and  crumbling  tombs  from  whence  she  gets 
Most  fit  ingredients  for  the  hellish  spells 
She  deals  in.     The  day  she  gave  me  that, 
I  found  her  in  her  low  and  dingy  cabin 
Oouched  on  the  humid  earth — watching, 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA  IN  1769.  427 

With  a  curious  care,  some  working  spell 
Which  crackled  'midst  the  smoking  embers. 
A  reddened  light  fell  o'er  the  African ; 
Her  twisted  hair,  white  as  a  maiden's  shroud, 
Contrasted  with  her  ebon  skin ;  and  her  limbs, 
Shrivelled  by  age,  were  but  half  covered  'neath 
Some  filthy,  partly -colored  rags. 
A  laugh,  which  sounded  like  a  tiger's  growl ; 
A  smile,  as  when  he  shows  his  bloody  teeth — 
Her  heavy  lips  relaxed,  while,  searching  mine, 
She  raised  her  serpent  eyes.     I  tremble 
Even  now. 

GAR.         And  I  rejoice. 

AUB.  By  Heaven ! 

How  can  I  reward  thee  ? 

GAR.  Teach  me  more  crimes — 

They  give  me  joy  enough  !     Continue  on ; 
Detail  your  full  intention  unto  me. 
What  would  you  do  'gainst  Yillere,  and  'gainst  young 
Laf  reniere  ?     I  pant  to  deal  with  men. 

AUB.  (talcing  a  dagger  from  his  bosom).  Here  is  a  dagger  I 

would  trust  Avith  thee ; 
Its  point  is  more  envenomed  than  the  bite 
Of  any  serpent  in  thy  native  woods. 
If  thou  couldst  only  touch  them  with  its  point — 
They  die,  and  I  am  happy. 

GAR.  (takes  the  dagger).     I  take  it, 
And  will  do  the  deed  ;  and  though,  with  prudence, 
You  have  steeped  the  dagger's  point  in  poison, 
Yet  the  wise  precaution  shall  be  useless ; 
For,  when  I  strike  the  oppressors  of  my  race, 
The  blow  shall  reach  their  hearts. 

ATJB.  Hush  !  be  careful ! 

Yillere  approaches. 

[Enter  YILLERE.] 
Ah!  Sir  Yillere, 

We  meet  in  proper  time.     This  way  I  came 
To  give  you  notice,  that,  at  twelve  to-day, 
The  council  meets ;  and  you,  of  course,  must  come : 
For  your  opinions,  ever  wise,  will  aid  us  much 
In  acting  on  the  matters  strange  we  must 
Discuss  to-day,, 

YIL.  Whatever  wisdom,  sir, 


428  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

Heaven  may  have  endowed  me  with 

Is  at  the  service  of  the  colony. 

But  tell  me,  sir,  what  strange  occurrence  this, 

Which  is  so  greatly  to  engage  our  minds  ? 

AUB.  Excuse  me,  sir  ;  this  public  place  ill  suits 
The  tale.     Already  have  seditious  men 
Summoned  the  crowd  to  meet  them  here,  and  soon 
The  hour  fixed  will  strike.     Adieu,  sir ; 
We  shall  expect  you. 

{Exit  AUBEY  and  GAKIDEL  severally* 

YIL.  Strange  this, 

The  people  and  the  council  both — 

{Enter  LAFRENIERE.] 

LAF.  Father, 

For  thus  I  love  to  call  thee — 

YIL.  Lafreniere, 

What  stir  is  this,  my  son  ?     Why  is  this 
Meeting  of  the  people  called  ? 

LAF.  Ah,  Yillere, 

I  have  got  such  news  'twill  turn  your  blood 
To  fire.     What  think  ye — France — France  has  spurned  us, 
She  has  disowned  us !     We  have  lost  the  name — 
The  glorious  name  of  Frenchmen. 

YIL.  What ! 

Has  the  King  refused  our  prayer  ? 

LAF.  Ay,  insists 

That  he  will  sell  us  like  a  gang  of  slaves, 
And  give  us  the  treacherous  Spaniard 
For  a  master. 

YIL.  Can  it  be  so  ?     O  France ! 

How  couldst  thou  treat  thy  children  thus  ?    But  say, 
Lafreniere,  is  there  no  hope  remaining  ? 

LAF.  None  but  in  ourselves. 

YIL.  Speak,  what  can  we  do  ? 

LAF.  Have  we  not  freeborn  souls,  stout  hearts, 
And  sinewy  arms  ? 

YIL.  We  have ;  what  then  ? 

LAF.  What !  dost  thou  ask  it  ?     Can  we  stand  thus, 
With  folded  arms,  and  with  our  swords  still  sheathed, 
And  see  our  country  trampled  in  disgrace — 
Sold  to  a  Spanish  tyrant,  be  made 
Spanish  slaves — and  not  a  single  effort  make 
To  gain  our  liberty  ? 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  439 

VIL.  Liberty  ? 

LAF.  Ay,  Liberty ! 

The  word  sounds  strangely  in  your  ear ;  but  soon 
Will  come  a  day,  when,  after  father,  mother,  God, 
That  word  will  be  the  first  one  taught 
To  prattling  babes ;  and  even  now 
I'd  have  it  make  each  brave  Louisianian 
Thrill  with  a  godlike  sentiment, 
And  like  the  electric  shock 
Strike  to  his  ardent  soul,  and  wake  him  up 
To  deeds  of  honor  and  renown. 

YIL.  But  do  I  understand  thee  well  ? 
Ha !  hast  thou  pleased  thy  fancy  with  a  dream 
Of  Greek  republics,  or  of  a  Eoman  commonwealth  ? 

LAF.  Then  must  slavery  be  our  choice. 
"Would  ye  have  us  bear  the  yoke  of  Spain,  and 
Call  her  tyrant  our  king  and  master,  and 
Her  treacherous  sons  our  countrymen  ? 

YIL.  Ah,  much  rather  would  I  die  than  bear 
Such  shame. 

LAF.  And  why  not  rather  then  be  free  ? 

There  is  no  middle  stand  between  two. 
Ungrateful  France  has  bartered  us  away ; 
We  should  from  her  ask  help  no  more ;  but  now 
Must  pass  from  one  proud  master  to  another, 
Or  rise  at  once  like  men,  and  boldly  strike 
For  freedom. 

YIL.  I  fear,  my  son,  that  thou  art  right. 

But  be  exact.    What  are  thy  plans  ? 

LAF.  Already 

Have  I  sent  Garidel  around,  to  call 
Together  our  most  worthy  citizens. 
I  would  have  them,  now,  disclaim  all  foreign 
Power,  govern  themselves ;  and  take  up  arms 
Should  France  or  Spain  invade  the  land. 

YIL.  But  stay, 

Lafreniere,  dost  thou  not  dread  a  failure  ? 

LAF.  I  dread  dishonor  more. 

YIL.  We  are  few,  and  all 

Undisciplined. 

LAF.  Our  cause  is  just.     That — and 

An  able  leader — will  insure  us  victory. 

YIL.  But  France  and  Spain  are  powerful ;  they'll  pour 


430  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

Upon  us  armies,  fleets.     Could  we  resist 
Such  mighty  strength  as  theirs  ? 

LAF.  "Well,  should  we  fail, 

"What  then  ?     We  will  have  done  our  duty ; 
But  should  we  yield  without  a  struggle, 
Not  only  chains  we'll  bear,  but  fame  will  brand  us — 
Cowards ! 

YIL.        Thou  hast  gained  me ;  and  now  with  thee 
This  compact  do  I  make — to  fight,  and  die 
Or  triumph  by  thy  side. 

LAF.  Come,  let  us  haste 

And  make  some  preparation  for  the  meeting. 

[Exit  LAFRENIERE  and  VILLERE. 
[Enter  DENOYANT,  MILHET,  MARQUIS,  and  CARKEKE.] 
DENOY.  'Tis  my  opinion  that  our  deputation 
Will  meet  with  full  success.     Louis  can  never 
Thus  abandon  his  faithful  subjects, 
And  his  richest  province  in  the  western  world. 

CAR.  Well,  I  confess  I  have  strong  doubts ; 
'Tis  probable,  I  think,  that  all  our  hopes 
Will  be  deceived,  and  that  the  Spaniard 
Will  reign  in  Louisiana  yet. 

DENOY.  Never ! 

Were  I  but  sure  that  such  a  day  would  come, 
I'd  quit  my  native  land,  home,  and  possessions — 
All — and  hie  me  to  some  distant  shore, 
Where  I'd  not  see  nor  even  hear  it  told. 

MILH.  For  me,  far  rather  would  I  drain  this  heart 
Of  all  the  blood  that  rushes  to  it  now, 
Than  see  my  country  for  one  moment  suffer 
Such  foul  disgrace. 

MARQ.  And  I  reecho  that, 

If  e'er  a  Spanish  tyrant  treads  on  me, 
'Twill  be  upon  a  lifeless  corpse. 

CAR.  Well,  well !    That 

Such  sentiments  are  highly  noble 
I  don't  deny.     But  are  they  not  in  vain  ? 
Eesistance  will  serve  us  nothing  ;  we  must 
Be  conquered.     Should  we  take  up  arms, 
Our  stubbornness  will  but  increase 
The  tyrant's  rancor. 

[During  the  dialogue  CROWDS  OF  CITIZENS  enter  from  every  side.~] 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  431 

MAKQ.  Here  comes  Lafreniere. 

{Enter  LAFRENIERE  and  VILLERE.] 

( Voices.)  What  news  ?  what  news  \ 

LAP.  Fellow-citizens,  most  painful  tidings 
Do  I  bring  you.     All,  all  our  hopes  are  crushed. 
A  letter  from  our  friend  Lesassier, 
Chief  of  the  deputation  we  have  sent 
To  lay  our  griefs  before  the  King,  and  beg 
The  revocation  of  the  shameful  treaty 
Of  which  we  have  such  reason  to  complain, 
Informs  me  he  could  not  even  reach 
The  royal  presence — that  the  ministers 
Kefuse  to  listen  to  our  just  demands, 
And  that  we,  at  our  gates,  may  soon  expect 
A  Spanish  army. 

(  Voices.)  Shame !     What  degradation  ! 

LAF.  My  friends,  there  is  not  one  of  you,  I  hope, 
Whose  soul  feels  not  its  indignation  rise, 
And  all  its  anger  conflagrated  burn, 
To  hear  of  the  high  contempt  with  which 
Licentious  Louis  treats  our  prayer.     Countrymen, 
Shall  our  native  land,  our  honors  and  our  lives, 
Be  humbled  to  strange  laws — laws 
Made  by  tyrants  and  by  slaves  enforced  ? 

( Voices.)  No,  never. 

DENOY.  What  can  we  do  ? 

LAF.  I'd  have  ye 

Take  up  arms — yes,  die  or  triumph — 
And  never  yield  submission  to  the  yoke. 
When  ills  have  reached  their  last  extremity, 
Despair  must  give  the  remedy  that  cures 
Their  strong  intensity. 

CAR.  Can  we  resist 

Our  pending  fate  ?    Can  we  contend  'gainst  Spain's 
Unnumbered  hordes  ? 

LAF.  Why  ask  ye  not  if  hearts 

We  have,  of  temper  bold  and  brave,  and  souls 
Which  labor  to  be  free  ?     Why  count  ye  numbers  ? 
Say,  do  ye  fear  to  die,  or  care  ye  if 
Your  death  doth  come  from  one  or  from 
Ten  thousand  hands  ? 

VIL.  I  think  Lafreniere  right. 

Our  numbers  are  but  few,  but  still  we  may, 


432  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

By  courage  and  determination,  intimidate 
Spain's  mercenary  hordes  and  free  our  shores 
From  vile  pollution. 

MAEQ.  My  life,  my  fortune, 

Freely  would  I  give,  to  save  my  country 
From  this  bondage. 

DENOY.  And  I ! 

MILH.  And  I ! 

CAR.  And  I ! 

LAF.  My  countrymen !  I  knew  ye  could  not  brook 
This  much-detested  change.     Soon  would  our 
Patriot  breasts  be  strangers  in  the  land 
"Where  once  they  breathed  their  natal  air, 
If  we  should  try  to  join  the  variance  wide 
"Which  parts  us  from  the  arrogant  Spaniard. 
His  morals,  manners,  character,  all  vary 
From  our  own.     Frenchmen  will  now  disown  us ; 
Spaniards  we  can  never  be,  nor  Englishmen ; 
But  shall  we  be  without  a  name  ?     Of  what 
Nation  will  ye  call  yourselves  ?     Old  Europe 
Has  not  a  name  to  fit  ye.     Then  let  our 
Country  be  Louisiana !     Let's  be  Americans ! 

CITIZENS.  Yes,  yes !  Americans  ! 

LAF.  Ay,  that's  a  name 

That  will  be  ours ;  that  none  can  take  away. 
Already  has  the  cry  of  liberty  * 
Eesounded  in  the  North.     The  colonies 
Of  Britain,  the  thirteen  provinces,  have  risen 
'Gainst  a  despot's  tyranny  ;  already 
Has  their  blood  flowed  in  the  sacred  cause. 
Let's  mix  our  blood  with  theirs, 
And  doubtless  victory  will  coronate 
The  sacred  pact.     The  Indian  will  help  us ; 
For  he  has  heard,  e'en  in  the  trackless  woods, 
Of  mines,  where  Indians  find  a  living  tomb ; 
Of  all  the  Inquisition's  horrors  dark ; 
Of  blood-stained  Gothic  institutions,  and 
Of  feudal  slavery.     Let  us  resist,  I  say ! 
Eemember  well,  that  Fortune's  favored  ones 
Are  noble,  daring  in  audacious  bravery. 

*  At  this  time  the  Americans  made  a  show  of  resistance  to  the  Stamp  Act.     The 
sentiment  was,  in  fact,  spoken  by  Lafreniere.     See  Gayarre's  Louisiana. 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,   LOUISIANA  IN  1769.  433 

CITIZENS.  We'll  not  submit !     No,  never  !  never ! 
{Enter  GAKIDEL.] 

GAE.  The  Spaniards  have  reached  our  shores !    A  fleet 
Bearing  in  it  full  five  thousand  men  sails 
Swiftly  up  the  river. 

LAF.  Now!  now, 

My  countrymen !  now  is  the  time  to  prove 
Our  firm  resolve !     Let  us  haste  and  arm,  and 
Drive  them  back  as  we  did  the  ignoble 
Don  Ulloa !     Soon  must  we  give  our  liberty 
Its  baptism  of  blood !     Prepare  to  die  or  be 
Triumphant !     Ay,  let's  take  a  sacred  oath — 
A  solemn  pledge,  of  victory  or  death ! 
Swear,  countrymen !  to  die  or  to  be  free ! 

CITIZENS  (simultaneously  stretching  out  their  right  hands).    We 
swear ! 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  1. — The  Council  Chamber.     AUBRY,  VILLERE,  MILHET,  DENOY- 
ANT,  MARQUIS,  CARRERE,  and  other  members  of  the  council 
round  a  table. 

AUB.  Gentlemen,  matter  of  great  consequence 
Unites  us  here  to-day  in  grave  debate. 
Deliberate  measures  must  we  take,  and 
Prudence  more  than  anything  to-day  should  guide 
And  dictate  all  our  actions.     No  reckless 
Eesolutions,  or  undertaking  rash, 
By  us  adopted,  should  this  fair  province, 
And  ourselves,  in  risks  and  danger  plunge. 
You  have  already  been  informed  that  this 
Fair  colony  has,  by  our  gracious  King, 
Louis  the  beloved,  been  surrendered 
Unto  his  Majesty  the  sovereign  Charles 
Of  Spain.     I  need  not  tell  you  of  the  greatness, 
The  clemency  and  wisdom,  of  this  prince. 
Obedience  to  him  is  our  duty. 
Long  have  I  waited  with  impatience, 
That  o'er  us  should  begin  his  rule.     At  last 
My  longing  wishes  are  all  satisfied. 

{Enter  LAFRENIERE,  who  remains  in  front.'] 


434  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

O'Reilly,  with  full  powers  from  his  King, 

Ascends  the  river  and  will  soon  be  here. 

"Tis  true,  that  moved  by  futile  hope,  and  strong 

Attachment  for  the  mother  country, 

Our  citizens  did  drive  good  Don  Ulloa 

From  their  native  shore ;  but  of  this  wrong  deed 

They  have,  I  hope,  repented.     Ambitious 

Factions  and  discontented  men,  I  know, 

Have,  by  their  cunning  and  exciting  speeches, 

Stirred  their  noble  spirits  to  rebellion ; 

But  quick  submission  will,  I  hope,  soon  show 

That  'tis  but  a  moment's  aberration 

Which  leads  them  thus,  with  folly,  to  disown 

The  will  and  power  of  their  rightful  king. 

LAF.  (aside).  Base  hypocrite  !  lying  traitor ! 

YIL.  Indeed! 

Your  Excellence  will  pardon  me,  if  my 
Opinion  differs  from  your  own.     I  think 
Our  citizens  are  not  thus  unsteady ; 
Nor  are  they  guided  by  a  blind  caprice. 
What  they  have  done,  was  calmly  done,  and  not 
In  headlong  haste.     They  have  resolved  to  rise, 
And  desperate  resistance  to  oppose 
To  the  invading  horde ;  and  their  honor 
They  have  pledged,  at  price  of  blood,  to  save 
Their  country  from  oppression. 

LAF.  (aside).  Ay,  tremble, 

Ye  traitors,  for  they'll  keep  that  sacred  oath. 

ATJB.  Much  does  it  hurt  me  to  confess  the  great 
Displeasure  I  do  feel,  Sir  Yillere,  now 
To  find  that  you,  whose  discreet  judgments  have 
So  often  shed  benignant  influence  o'er 
This  council  board,  should  thus  have  joined  the  voice, 
The  raging  of  the  factious  few,  whose  acts, 
Thoughtless  and  criminal,  ere  long  might  bring 
An  evil  scourge  upon  Louisiana, 
And  on  themselves  complete  destruction. 

LAF.  (aside).  God! 

Restrain  me,  or  I'll  kill  the  wretch ! 

AUB.  Remember, 

Yillere,  that  when  the  Mississippi's  wave, 
With  mighty  force,  and  waters  running  high, 
Threatens  to  crumble  down  our  feeble  dykes, 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  435 

The  prudent  planter  seeks  to  prop  the  banks 

Or  mend  the  widening  breach.     I  fondly  thought 

That  you,  in  this  event,  would  seek  to  set 

The  barrier  of  your  wisdom  up  against 

The  unruly  current  of  this  folly — 

This  rash  presumption  which  menaces  now 

To  sweep  you  with  it,  and  destroy  you. 

LAF.  (aside).  Oh,  the  bribed  scoundrel ! 

VIL.  Aubry,  I  care  not 

How  soon  this  white  head  of  mine  is  felled ;  still 
Persist  I  in  my  first  opinion.     Wisdom, 
You  say,  has  until  now  her  breath  infused 
Into  my  words ;  she  has  not  quit  my  side. 
No  factious  counsel  have  I  given ;  but 
The  people — the  whole  people — have  arisen, 
And  Spain's  mercenaries  shall  dye  their  swords 
In  Creole  blood,  and  tread  upon  an  host 
Of  slain,  before  they  gain  the  city's  walls. 

DENOY.  Ay,  Aubry ;  and  I  have  joined  them  too,  and 
Have  pledged  my  honor  also  with  the  rest ; 
And  to  redeem  the  promise  I  have  made, 
My  sword  must  triumph  in  the  battle,  or 
My  life  be  paid  a  tribute  to  the  grave. 

MILH.  And  mine ! 

MARQ.  (to  Aubry).     Sir,  we'll  never  yield  ! 

DENOY.  No,  never. 

AUB.  Gentlemen !     This  is  rebellion — treason ! 
France  has  made  a  formal  resignation — 

CAR.  I  do  deny  the  right — 

DENOY.  We  all  deny  it. 

AUB.  The  people  here  cannot  assume  a  voice. 

LAF.  (to  Aubry).     Thou  liest,  dog  !     The  people  will  assume 
That  right— 

MILH.  Yes,  and  they'll  maintain  it  too ! 

LAF.  Ah !  hear  you  that,  your  Excellence  ?     Thought  ye 
These  men  were  bought  by  dirty  Spanish  gold  ? 
You've  called  them  traitors — you  are  the  traitor  I 
Do  you  not  hold  a  correspondence  close 
With  the  governor  of  Havana,  say  ? 
And  sent  you  not  unto  the  court  of  Spain 
The  names  of  those  who  led  the  noble  band 
Which  drove  proud  Don  Ulloa  from  our  shore  ? 
I  tell  you,  Aubry,  you  are  the  traitor. 


436  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

AUB.  Gentlemen,  do  you  suffer  this  ? 

LAF.  Suffer ! 

Do  you  appeal  to  them  ?     Go,  call  your  friends, 
The  treacherous  Spaniards. 

AUB.  I'll  call  my  guard. 

I'll  have  you  all  arrested.     (The  members  rise  and  draw.) 

LAF.  What! — guard!  arrest! 

I  do  defy  you  to  attempt  it.     Ha ! 
Pronounce  one  word,  and  round  us  I  will  bring 
The  assembled  city,  all  up  in  arms, 
To  tear  thy  worthless  soldiery  to  pieces, 
And  destroy  thee  with  them. 

AUB.  (softening).  Excuse  me,  sirs, 

But  'twas  my  duty  which  commanded  me. 
I  meant  no  insult,  nor  was  I  in  earnest — 

LAF.  (to  Aubry}.  Silence ! 

(To  the  members?)  Gentlemen !     The  people  send  me  to  you. 
My  message  is,  that  they  have  made  me  chief, 
And  all  authority  have  placed  in  me, 
Until  invaders  shall  no  more  pollute 
The  air  we  breathe.     This  council  is  dissolved ; 
And  you,  my  friends,  it  is  expected,  will 
Unite  your  strength  with  ours,  to  repel 
The  horde  of  bandits  who,  advancing  fast, 
Approach  with  angry  cries  our  walls. 

YIL.  Whate'er 

Our  fellow-citizens  ordain,  we'll  do. 

DENOY.  And  we  are  happy,  Lafreniere,  that  you 
Have  been  selected  to  command. 

MILH.  Success 

Is  thus  insured. 

MAKQ.  And  confidence  inspired. 

AUB.  I  do  protest  against  this  whole  proceeding. 
It  is  illegal. 

LAF.  (to  Aubry}.     Silence,  I  tell  thee,  thou  perfidious 
Coward. 

(To  the  members.}    My  friends,  it  is  my  ardent  wish 
That  your  great  trust  in  me  should  be  maintained. 
All  my  best  energies  I'll  use  to  gain 
The  franchise  we  aspire  to.     The  aid 
Of  your  advice,  good  gentlemen,  will  be 
Of  great  assistance  to  me,  and  I  hope 
That  'twill  be  given  with  profusion.     Come, 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  437 

Let  us  haste ;  our  forces  must  be  formed. 
And  we  must  march  to-night. 

[Exeunt  LAFRENIERE,  VILLERE,  cmd  members. 
AUB.  A  coward !  yes, 

I  know  I  am  a  coward ;  but,  rash  youth, 
With  all  thy  bravery,  I'll  overcome  thee. 
Ay !  trust  thee  to  honor,  strength,  and  courage. 
Cunning  will  overset  thee  with  a  straw. 
Aubry  will  teach  thee  lessons  so  severe 
They'll  make  you  feel  as  a  well-punished  child 
Scorching  'neath  his  tutor's  whip.     I'll  teach  him, 
Young,  presuming  dog !  to  know  his  fellow-men — 
Their  falsehood,  and  the  little  trust  to  place 
In  all  their  oaths  and  protestations  loud. 
To-morrow's  dawn  shall  ope  to  disappoint 
His  proud  ambition  and  his  brilliant  plans. 

SCENE  2. — Adelaide's  apartment. 
[Enter  GAKIDEL.] 

GAR.  'Tis  now  my  glowing  Indian  blood  doth  flow 
"With  all  its  vigor  through  my  beating  veins. 
How  high  it  leaps  at  thoughts  of  gratified 
Eevenge  !     (Holds  up  the  vial  of  poison.}    All  hail,  thou  elixir  of 

hell! 

Poison  to  her,  and  balm  to  me  for  every  wound 
Inflicted  by  her  father.     Now's  the  time — 
No  one  observes  me — none  will  dare  suspect. 

(Takes  up  a  vial  from  the  toilet  table.} 
This  is  her  favorite  essence ;  'tis  the 
Sweet  cologne  of  wide  reputed  virtue — 
Its  purity  unsullied  as  descending  dew, 
Its  odor  fragrant  as  a  garden's  breath, 
Its  healing  power  most  miraculous. 

(Pours  the  vial  of  poison  into  it.} 
Neither  its  odor  nor  its  color  change. 
Thou  God  !  it  will  succeed !     Ha  !  how  she'll  look  !— 
Her  beauty  gone  and  horror  in  its  place  ! 
I  see  her  raving  at  its  loss  ;  and  he, 
Distracted  by  the  dreadful  blow,  shall  writhe 
Beneath  the  vengeful  stroke.     Her  father,  too ! — 
Ha  !  how  he  will  feel  it,  when  this  godd( 


438  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

This  queen  of  beauty  he  so  dotes  upon, 

Will  fall  upon  his  neck  all  withered  o'er 

By  sullying  disease !     Ha  !  and  perhaps 

He'll  shrink  away,  and  dread  to  kiss  that  cheek 

On  which  so  often  he  has  pressed  the  lip — 

The  fervent  lip,  of  warm  parental  love. 

Ah  !  and  her  mother — what  will  she  do  ?     Oh, 

She  will  die !     For  'tis  beyond  conception 

That  she  should  bear  the  dreadful  agony 

That  this  will  bring  upon  her.     They  come — 

I  must  not  here  be  seen.     O  happy  hour ! 

Brim  full  of  secret  pleasure.  \_Exit  GAKIDEL. 

{Enter  ADELAIDE  and  MRS.  YILLERE.] 

MRS.  YIL.  My  Adelaide, 

Thy  choice,  indeed,  doth  satisfaction  give 
To  thy  fond  mother.     Of  all  the  noble 
Youths  who  crowd  to  catch  one  softened  ray 
From  those  bright  eyes  of  thine,  more  worthy  none 
Than  young  Lafreniere  is  to  be  thy  lord ; 
His  form  is  cast  in  manly  beauty's  mould, 
His  heart  is  virtue's  richest,  purest  gem, 
His  mind  a  palace  genius  lighteth  up. 

ADE.  Ah,  mother,  thou  dost  almost  flatter  him. 

MRS.  YIL.  Faultless,  I  do  not  say  he  is. 

ADE.  Some  faults 

He  has ;  but,  like  clouds  around  the  sun, 
They're  gilded  over  by  the  shining  rays 
Cast  from  the  brightness  of  his  qualities, 
And  only  serve  to  give  a  high  relief 
To  all  the  splendor  of  his  virtue. 

MRS.  YIL.  Say, 

Think  ye  not  he  is  presumptuous  ? 

ADE.  No,  no. 

Presumption  is,  I  think,  the  distance  'tween 
What  men  themselves  believe  to  be  the  worth, 
The  virtue,  talent,  power,  they  possess, 
And  what  their  real  value  is.     Pray,  then, 
To  what  has  young  Lafreniere  yet  pretended 
In  which  he  overprized  himself  ? 

MRS.  YIL.  Thou  dost 

Defend  him  well,  and  with  an  eloquence 
Near  equal  to  his  own. 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA  IN  1769.  439 

ADE.  My  heart  doth  prompt  it. 

(Trumpets,  drums,  and  shouts  are  heard  without,  distantly.} 

MRS.  VIL.  Hark  to  these  sounds  ! 

ADE.  (opening  a  window}.  See,  mother,  'tis  the  proud 

Array  of  war ;  and,  while  we  talk  of  love, 
Our  youths  abandon  now  their  chosen  fair, 
And  court  the  favor  of  less  tender  dames : 
Glory  and  carnage,  and  bright  liberty, 
Are  now  the  mistresses  to  whom  they  bow, 
And  deck  their  forms  in  warlike  garb  to  woo. 
Think,  mother,  that  our  verdant  fields  will  soon 
In  gory  streams  be  soaked ;  and  that  many  friends 
We  love,  'neath  hostile  swords  may  sink.     Ah !  think, 
That  my  father,  too,  may  fall  amidst  the  fight, 
Pouring  his  life-blood  on  his  native  soil — 
Dying — all  gashed  and  pierced  and  trampled  o'er 
By  charging  horses  and  the  reckless  feet 
Of  rushing  thousands.  (The  noises  cm 

MRS.  YIL.  Ah  !  my  Adelaide, 

Thou  bringest  on  me  thoughts  which  shake  my  soul 
E'en  to  its  inmost  dwelling. 

[Enter  YILLERE.] 

ADE.  Father ! 

MRS.  YIL.  Husband ! 

YIL.  My  wife — my  child ! 

MRS.  YIL.  Yillere, 

I  read  my  fate  already  in  thine  eye. 
Thou  art  called  to  risk  thy  life,  so  precious 
To  our  hearts,  in  battle's  dreadful  fury. 
And  must  we  now,  when  years  of  quiet  and 
Content  have  blessed  our  union,  part  with  fear 
Of  never  meeting  more  ? 

YIL.  Not  so,  my  spouse. 

Let  not  thus  fear  victorious  hold  the  sway 
Of  thy  true  heart.     Let  rather  pleasing  hopes 
Dispel  thy  cloudy  bodings  of  the  future. 
No  share  to  me  is  granted  in  the  fight 
Which  is  to  fix  my  country's  destiny ; 
And,  though  I  begged  a  station  to  obtain 
In  its  defenders'  ranks,  my  prayer  was  vain. 
Lafreniere,  whom  the  people  have  appointed 
Leader,  sends  me  amongst  the  settlements 
To  call  in  all  Louisiana's  force, 


440  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

And  gain  the  succor  of  our  red  allies. 

From  thence,  in  haste,  I'll  wend  my  lengthened  way 

To  ask  assistance  of  that  noble  race 

Who  dwell  along  Atlantic's  western  shore, 

And  who  are  now,  in  proud  array,  opposed 

To  proud  Britannia's  tyranny. 

MRS.  VIL.  Thanks  to  Lafreniere  for  this  happy  care. 
Much  will  I  try,  the  pleasure  now  he  gives 
This  sorrowing  breast,  in  double  fold  to  pay. 

ADE.  But,  father,  dost  thou  leave  us  e'en  to-day  ? 

YIL.  Yes,  all  is  ready,  and  I  go  e'en  now ; 
My  steed  awaits  me  at  the  gate. 

MRS.  YIL.  My  love, 

Why  haste  you  thus  ?     Oh,  wait  until  the  morn  ! 
Stay  with  us  yet  this  day. 

YIL.  Each  minute  counts. 

Come,  then,  embrace  thy  husband  e'er  he  goes.       (They  embrace.} 
My  country  needs  the  promptest  services, 
And  I  must  fly  upon  the  wings  of  haste. 
My  daughter,  go,  tell  Garidel  prepare 

To  start  upon  this  voyage  with  me.  [Exit  ADELAIDE. 

Come,  my  love,  be  not  depressed.     I'll  send  thee  news 
Of  all  that  doth  befall  me  as  I  go. 

MRS.  YIL.  And  must  it  then  be  so  ?     But,  Yillere,  say, 
Wilt  thou  be  absent  long  ? 

YIL.  But  six  short  weeks 

Will  suffice  for  my  duty.     I'll  then  return ; 
And  Heaven  grant  I  find  my  country  free, 
The  Spaniards  beaten,  and  untroubled  peace 
Around  our  happy  fireside !     And  then, 
My  wife,  the  long  retarded  union  of 
Our  child  with  Lafreniere  once  solemnized, 
In  tranquil  solitude  we'll  pass  the  days 
Of  our  last  years. 

\Reenter  ADELAIDE.] 

ADE.  Father,  thy  bidding's  done  ;  Garidel  is  ready. 

YIL.  I  thank  thee,  child  ; 

But  come  before  thy  father  goes,  and  take  his  blessing. 

(He  kisses  her  forehead,  and  she  kneels.} 
My  daughter,  Heaven  bless  thee, 
Ward  off  all  dangers  from  this  lovely  head, 
Keep  thy  fragile  frame  from  pain  or  sickness, 
Preserve  thee  to  console  my  coming  age, 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  441 

And  make  thee  thy  Lafreniere's  worthy  bride.     (She  rises.) 

Remember  oft  thy  father  ;  in  thy  prayers, 

Each  eve  and  morn,  send  up  to  God's  high  throne 

An  earnest  supplication  for  success 

To  all  his  labor,  and  his  safe  return. 

ADE.  Oh !  could  I  forget  that  duty,  father  ? 
Oh,  may  my  faint  petition  reach  the  ear 
Of  Him  who  holds  our  fate  within  His  hand  ! 
He'll  not  refuse  what  asks  a  guileless  heart : 
He'll  shield  thee,  father,  and  will  keep  thee  for  us. 

MRS.  YIL.  Nay,  go  not  yet. 

YIL.  Indeed,  I  must  depart. 

My  country  calls.     Adieu !  (They  embrace  and  part.} 

ADE.  Adieu ! 

MRS.  VIL.  Adieu !         [Exit  VILLERE. 

ADE.  O  mother,  I  am  faint !     This  unforewarned 
Departure  of  my  father  striketh  hard 
Upon  my  heart,  and  makes  me  feel  quite  sick. 

MRS.  VIL.  (wetting  her  kerchief  from   the  vial).     Here,   my 

daughter,  here ;  respire  this,  my  love, 
And  pour  it  o'er  thy  cheeks,  and  neck,  and  temples ; 
'Twill  spur  the  blood  that  stoppeth  in  thy  veins. 

[As  MRS.  VILLERE  gives  the  kerchief  and  vial  to  her  daughter,  GARIDEL 

enters.'} 
GAR.  (aside}.  Ha ! 

(To  MRS.  VILLERE.) 

Dear  madam,  I  come  to  bid  adieu 
To  you  and  kind  Miss  Adelaide. 

MRS.  VIL.  Thank  thee, 

Garidel,  for  this  attention.     Good-by. 
I  wish  thee  a  pleasant  voyage,  and  hope 
That  nought  but  good  will  come  across  thy  path. 

GAR.  Thank  thee,  good  lady ;  but  is  Miss  Adelaide 
Unwell  ? — she  looks  quite  pale. 

ADE.  A  little  faint — 

'Tis  nothing — this  will  drive  it  soon  away. 
But,  Garidel,  take  good  care  of  father — 
Let  nothing  do  him  harm. 

GAR.  Long  as  this  arm 

Can  move,  it  shall  be  lifted  to  protect 
My  benefactor.     Adieu  !     (GARIDEL  shakes  the  hands  of  loth.} 

[Exit  GARIDEL. 


442  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

MRS.  VIL.  Indeed, 

Garidel  is  well  worthy  of  the  care 
That  on  him  Villere  has  bestowed ;  but  say, 
My  daughter,  art  thou  still  unwell  ? 

ADE.  "Tis  past — 

I'm  quite  recovered. 

MRS.  YIL.  Well,  then,  I  leave  thee ; 

I  have  some  duties  to  attend  to.     (They  kiss.} 

[Exit  MRS.  VILLERE.] 

ADE.  Ah! 

How  full  of  pain  this  hour  is,  and  how 
My  feeble  heart  doth  throb  with  suffering  ! 

(Sees  a  letter  on  the  toilet.} 

Ah,  a  letter ! — 'Tis  addressed  to  me.     What  can 
It  be  ?     (Opens  it  and  reads.}     "  Adelaide,  thy  love's  bestowed 
On  one  unworthy ;  and  the  hot  passion 
He  pretends,  a  false  heart  disguises. 
His  high  ambition  and  his  secret  plans 
Force  him  to  seek  an  union  which  will  gain 
A  strong  support  to  all  his  wild  designs. 
And,  lady,  though  he  feels  no  spark  of  love, 
Yet  still  he  woos  thee  for  thy  name,  and  will 
Perhaps  e'en  yet  sufficient  power  have 
To  make  thee  spurn  the  warning  of  a  friend." 
Ah !  can  this  be  true,  or  is  it  calumny  ? 
O  Lafreniere,  couldst  thou  deceive  me  thus  ? 
Oh,  double  blow  of  pitiless  misfortune ! 
{Enter  LAFRENIERE.] 

LAF.  Ah,  Adelaide  !  thou  seem'st  unwell,  my  love. 
Say,  what  weighs  thee  down  so  heavily  ? 
What !  is't  on  me  thy  angry  frowns  are  bent  ? 
What  have  I  done  to  merit  such  reception  ? 

ADE.  Leave  me  this  instant,  sir ! 

LAF.  Nay?  say  n°t  so. 

Thou  art  not  serious,  Adelaide.     Ah, 
That  blush  which  doth  suffuse  thy  lovely  cheek 
Methinks  doth  tell  another  tale ! 

ADE.  Blush,  sir ! 

The  red  that  rose  upon  my  brow  doth  mark 
My  great  displeasure  at  the  sight  of  thee. 

LAF.  Heaven !  what  crime  have  I  committed  ? 

ADE.  Say, 

Art  thou  not  false,  and  is  not  Ambition 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA    IN  1769.  443 

The  only  dame  whose  favors  thou  dost  court 
When  thou  dost  kneel  to  me  ? 

LAF.  'Tis  true  I  am 

Ambitious ;  but,  my  Adelaide,  I  swear 
Thou'rt  joined  with  my  ambition's  brightest  dream ; 
And  laurels,  riches,  fame,  I'd  cast  away 
As  childish  baubles,  nor  would  I  aspire 
To  aught  above  the  name  of  honest  man, 
Did  I  not  think  to  share  these  things  with  thee. 

ADE.  Most  bravely,  frankly,  said  ;  and  thou  too  canst 
Thine  honor  and  thy  truth  both  lay  aside 
With  her  whose  weakness  ye'd  beguile.     Sir, 
I  have  friends  who  o'er  my  welfare  watch, 
And  whose  kind  care  detected  have  thy  plans — 
Thy  wily,  base,  ungenerous  plots. 

LAF.  (kneeling).  Upon  my  knees  I  pray  thee,  Adelaide, 
Tell  me  what  whim  is  this.     What  black  falsehood 
Hast  thou  heard  which  makes  thee  doubt,  what  ne'er 
Until  to-day  hath  been  impeached  by  woman  or 
By  man — Lafreniere's  honor  ? 

ADE.  Ay,  'tis  thus 

With  all  your  sex  :  ye  kneel  and  cringe  ; 
With  cheating  words,  and  oaths,  and  promises, 
And  whining  prayers,  ye  do  triumph  o'er 
Our  unsuspecting  hearts  ;  and  when  we  own 
Your  power,  and  our  love — to  masters  change ; 
Poor  feeble  woman's  duty  then  becomes 
To  watch  each  caprice  of  a  tyrant's  will — 
Live  in  his  smile  and  wither  'neath  his  frown. 

LAF.  (who  has  risen).    Lady,  I've  done.     Thou'lt  hear  from  me 

no  more 

Words  prompted  by  my  passion's  ardor.     Yet 
Do  not  think  the  fire  that  burns  within 
This  breast  will  cease  to  burn.     Though  smothered, 
'Twill  not  die,  and,  thus  confined,  'twill  torture 
None  but  me.     My  countrymen  await  me. 
Oh,  may  I  lead  them  unto  victory, 
And  may  /meet  with  death  !  [Exit  LAFRENIEKE. 

ADE.  What  have  I  done  ? 

Why  did  I  not  show  him  this  ? — Laf —    Ah,  no  ! 
I  must  not  call  him  back  ;  he  would  exult 
As  in  a  victory.     Proud  of  the  strong 
Seductions  of  his  mien  and  eloquence, 


444  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

He'd  look  upon  me  as  a  conquered  slave. 

No,  no  :  I'm  full  of  love,  yet  I'm  as  proud 

As  he.     Ah,  my  mother  !     To  thee  I'll  haste 

For  consolation  to  my  stricken  breast.  \Exit~ 

SCENE   3.— A   Wood  (Night). 
[Enter  AUBEY,  accompanied  by  RUFFIANS.] 

ATJB.     Yes ;  this  is  the  place  fixed  by  Garidel — 
His  note  describes  it  well.     Go  ye  and  hide 
Behind  these  trees  ;  and,  when  I  the  signal  give, 
Hush  on  Sir  Villere — ye  know  him  all.     Mind, 
Shed  not  one  drop  of  blood,  or  ye  shall  not 
Be  paid  a  single  sou.     Remember  well, 
That  he  that's  with  him  is  a  friend.     Go.  [Exit  rujfians- 

Now, 

Villere,  I  think  I'll  make  thee  much  repent 
This  morning's  insult,  thrown  with  heedless  hand 
Into  my  face.     Villere  my  prisoner, 
My  favor  with  the  Spanish  chief  is  doubly 
Sure  ;  and  thus  both  interest  and  my  hate 
I  serve  at  once  ;  and  yet  I  will  myself 
Be  safe,  nor  stand  the  danger  of  a  blow. 
'Tis  thus  with  prudence  men  should  ever  act, 
Nor  rashly  jeopardize  their  own  lives 
In  open  combats  of  uncertain  end. 
It  is  not  all  to  serve  the  spite  one  feels, 
But  most  maturely  should  we  weigh  results. 
None  would  I  hurt  who  useful  to  me  are, 
Though  I  should  hate  them  with  a  poisoned  hate. 
But  if  I  loved  a  man — though  that  can't  be — 
I'd  have  him  murdered  if  he  barred  my  plans. 
These  fights,  done  in  the  world's  wide  eye,  create 
To  one  an  host  of  angry  enemies ; 
But  'tis  the  midnight  blow,  the  killing  draught, 
Which  yield  revenge  while  safety  is  not  risked ; 
And  on  to-morrow  I  can  give  this  hand 
Into  the  brother  of  the  man  it  kills 
To-night. 

GAR.  (outside).  'Tis  a  fit  place.     Good  Sir  Villere, 
Let  us  here  dismount  and  seek  the  path  :  on  foot 
We'll  find  it  easier.     Our  steeds  are  tired — 
Let's  give  them  rest  a  while. 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  445 

AUB.  Ah,  here  they  come, 

I  must  conceal  myself ;  I'll  not  approach 

Until  he's  well  secured  and  bound.  [Exit  AUBRY. 

[Enter  GARIDEL  and  YILLERE.] 

VIL.  Well,  Garidel, 

With  thy  fancy  for  a  shorter  path, 
We're  lost,  and  now  must  pass  the  dreary  night 
In  this  cold  morass. 

GAR.  I  promise  it,  good  sir, 

That  in  a  healthy  bed  you'll  sleep  this  night, 
And  'neath  a  shelter  most  secure.  (Thunder.) 

YIL.  Hear  that ! 

And  we  shall  have  a  storm  to  make  the  night 
Most  comfortably  romantic.  (Lightning  and  thunder.) 

GAR.  Indeed, 

Sir  Yillere,  walk  with  me  but  some  few  steps  : 
Surely  I'll  meet  with  friends. 

[Enter  RUFFIANS  slowly  creeping  behind.] 

YIL.  Pshaw  !  seest  thou  not 

That  we  are  in  the  very  swamp  itself  ? 
This  delay  distracts  me.     Oh,  my  country  ! 
May  Heaven  shield  thee  till  I  send  thee  help. 
I  fear  the  battle,  on  which  turns  thy  fate, 
Will  be  decided  e'er  I  send  thee  succor ; 
And  that  thy  little  band  will  be  o'erwhelmed. 

GAR.  Come.     This  swampy  air  doth  chill  your  blood  : 

YIL.  (turning,  sees  the  RUFFIANS  and  draws).     Ah,  see, 
Garidel !  through  the  darkness  I  discover 
Some  human  figures  lurking. 

GAR.  Ah!  doubtless 

They  are  black,  runaways  !     Give  me  your  sword, 
For  I  am  young  and  strong ;  take  these  instead. 
(They   exchange   arms.     YILLERE   gives  GARIDEL  his  sword,  who 
returns  a  brace   of  pistols.     The   RUFFIANS  rush   on   YILLERE,   who 
attempts  to  fire,  but  the  pistols  snap.     The  RUFFIANS  seize  him.) 

YIL.     Treachery  !    Wretches  !  slaves  !  unhand  me  ! 
(The  curtain  falls.) 

ACT  III. 
SCENE  1. — The  interior  of  LAFRENIERE'S  tent. 

[Enter  LAFRENIERE.] 

LAF.  I  like  the  plan  ;  it  will,  I  think,  secure 
A  glorious  victory.     On  one  side 


446  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

The  deep,  broad,  rapid  Mississippi  rolls  ; 

And,  on  the  other,  impenetrable  swamps 

Prevent  approaches  of  the  foe.     Our  front 

Protected  by  a  breastwork  and  a  fosse, 

We  can  defy  the  well-drilled  troops  of  Spain, 

Bring  all  our  force  to  bear,  and  though  unused 

To  battle  (yet,  in  savage  forests  trained 

To  use,  with  fatal  aim,  the  carabine), 

Americana' s  brave  and  hardy  sons 

Will  strew  the  field  with  dead,  make  the  Spaniard 

Shrink  away  with  dread,  and  victory  insure. 

Yes,  I  like  the  plan ;  it  answers  well ; 

It  is  the  only  one  by  which  the  rising 

City  of  my  birth,  Louisiana's  pride, 

Can  be  defended  'gainst  invading  hordes 

Who  seek  for  rapine  and  for  slaughter. 

{Enter  AUBBY.] 

Aubry  !     What  wouldst  coward,  traitor,  here  ? 
Hast  thou  repented — hast  thou  brave  become, 
And  wouldst  thou  aid  thy  country  in  the  fight  ? 
Or  dost  thou  come,  a  cunning  spy,  to  watch 
Our  movements,  and  give  the  Spaniards  notice  ? 

AUB.  Lafreniere,  I  am  no  traitor.     I  ne'er 
Acknowledged  thy  authority,  nor  that 
Of  those  who  rashly  made  you  chief  :  I  owe 
Allegiance  to  the  Spanish  king  ;  and  I 
Do  show  obedience  to  the  plain  command 
Of  Louis,  by  whose  decree  and  gracious  will 
I  held  the  rule  o'er  this  fair  colony. 
I  have  protested,  but  in  vain  'twas  done, 
'Gainst  thine  and  the  people's  usurpation 
Of  the  power  which  belonged  to  me.     But  since 
My  proclamation  is  disdained, 
I  ask  thee — chief  of  this  rebel  army — 

LAF.  (offers  to  strike  him}.  Eebel !  vile  traitor,  had  I  not  pity 
On  thy  helplessness,  I'd  shake  thy  limbs  apart 
For  this  insulting  insolence. 

AUB.  Nay,  sir, 

Excuse  my  words ;  no  insult  did  I  mean, 
And  hope  it  is  not  taken  so.     The  words 
Came  of  themselves  upon  my  lip :  I  called 
Them  not  with  wish  of  giving  you  offence ; 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA  IN  1768.  447 

But  rebels,  fear  I,  ye  will  still  be  named, 
Unless  victorious  in  the  coming  fight — 

(LAFRENIERE  offers  to  draw.) 
Nay,  sir — I  beg — I  would  not  anger  you — 
There's  no  insult  meant. 

LAF.  Speak  !     What  wouldst  thou  ? 

AUB.  I  pray  that,  since  I  owe  you  no  submission, 
Since  enrolment  with  you  is  but  voluntary, 
Since  'tis  the  duty  of  the  rank  I  hold, 
Since  my  proclamation  has  been  vain, 
That  you  would  let  me,  at  this  hour,  repair 
Unto  the  Spanish  camp,  and  there  remain, 
And  all  the  rights  of  war  partake  as  do 
The  other  subjects  of  the  Iberian  king. 

LAF.  Pshaw !    Think' st  thou  that  we  do  want  thee  'mongst  us  ? 
Go,  sir !     The  service  thou  canst  render  Spain 
Will  do  us  little  injury.     Go,  sir  ! 
And  bow  thy  servile  head  unto  the  slave 
Of  Europe's  vilest  despot.     Go,  sir ! 
We  want  not  cowards,  traitors,  'mongst  us ; 
We'll  dread  thee  less  when  in  the  Spanish  camp. 

AUB.  I  thank  you,  sir — I  go  ;  but — 

LAF.  Mind  thee,  sir, 

Thou'lt  run  much  risk  to  cross  this  camp  ;  for  if 
One  of  the  citizens  discover  thee, 
Thou'lt  soon  be  torn  into  a  thousand  parts. 

AUB.     I  know  that ;  for  I  heard  them  cursing  me, 
As  I  passed  through  them  to  you.     I  dread  not 
Such  detection ;  this  cloak  doth  hide  me  well. 
But  can  I  pass  the  outposts  ? 

LAF.  Thou  couldst  not, 

Unless  thou  hadst  the  word.     But  that  would  make 
Thee  tremble,  but  to  hear  it  spoken  out; 
'T would  choke  thy  utterance  to  speak  the  word  ; 
'Twas  made  for  braves  and  freemen  to  pronounce. 
Without  there !  citizen ! 

\Enter  SOLDIER.] 
Conduct  this 
Man  beyond  the  outposts,  and  leave  him  free. 

[Exit  SOLDIER  and  AUBRY,  who  bows  to  LAFRENIERE  as  he  goes  out. 
O  man !  thou  art  a  creature  strange  indeed  ! 
Who  can  explain  the  workings  of  thy  heart  ? 
Aubry  is  insolent,  yet  cowardly — 


448  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

A  traitor,  who  killeth  while  caressing  you  ; 
And  yet  how  many  other  men  are  mild, 
Yet  brave  and  true,  who  scorn  a  crime ! 

"Tis  strange — 

Some  men  have  virtue,  others  vice  ;  and  while 
Each  beast  has  some  peculiar  character, 
Man  cannot  say  that  he  is  so  or  so. 
The  tiger  is  bloody,  false,  and  cowardly ; 
The  lion  is  bold  and  generous  ;  but  men 
Have  souls  of  various  makes,  so  many 
That  they  not  even  know  themselves. 

But  Yillere— 

I  get  no  news  of  him ;  what  can  it  mean  ? 
'Tis  now  a  week  since  I  have  sent  him  hence, 
And  yet  he  does  not  send  intelligence ; 
No  succors  do  arrive.     Why  lags  he  thus  2 
Are  the  settlements  indisposed  to  join  ? 
Is  he  neglectful  ?     No !     That  cannot  be. 
I  know  not  what  to  think. 

{Enter  MRS.  YILLERE.] 

MRS.  VIL.  Lafreniere ! 

LAF.  Madam  !     What  can  bring  you  here  ? 
What  has  occurred  ?     Your  look  is  full  of  pain. 

MRS.  YIL.  Where  is  my  husband,  Lafreniere  ? 

LAF.  Thy  husband ! 

Lady,  I  sent  him  to  the  settlements 
To  gather  forces  for  the  army. 

MRS.  YIL.     Have  you  got  news  ?    Where — how  fares  my  hus- 
band? 

LAF.  Lady,  I'll  not  deceive  you — I  know  not. 
Daily  I've  waited  for  some  messenger — 
Yet  none  from  him  has  arrived.     I  tremble 
Lest  some  accident  has  befallen  him. 

MRS.  YIL.  Ah  !     'Tis  this  I  have  trembled  should  occur. 
Ah  !     'Twas  thy  unquiet  spirit  led  him  on, 
And  brought  thy  country  into  dangers  vain. 

LAF.  Madam,  reproach  me  not.     Do  you  not  teach 
Your  beauteous  daughter,  by  your  precepts  wise, 
That  honor's  palm  is  more,  in  real  worth, 
Than  the  gaudiest  diadem  which  e'er  was  placed 
Upon  the  brows  of  shameless  votaries — 
That  death  is  better  than  a  tarnished  fame  ? 
And  wouldst  thou  see  thy  loved  husband,  lady, 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  449 

Or  I,  or  any  of  thy  countrymen, 

Bend  to  a  stranger's  pride  2     Say,  should  we  live 

To  blush  to  own  that  we  do  live  ?     Ah,  lady,  no  ! 

It  cannot  be  that  Villere's  wife  doth  utter 

Words  which  would  make  her  husband  blush  to  hear. 

MRS.  YIL.  True,  true.     Lafreniere,  thou  dost  speak  it  right. 
Pardon  me — I  am  distracted.    Heaven 
Is  witness  that  I  love  my  husband's  fame ; 
But  I  could  love  him  with  that  fame  all  lost. 

LAF.  Cheer  up,  good  madam  ! 

{Enter  FIRST  SOLDIER.] 

What  wouldst  thou,  soldier  ? 

SOLD.  A  deserter  from  the  Spanish  camp  asks 
For  admittance  near  you.     He  doth  assert    , 
That  he  has  business  pressing  and  important 
To  lay  before  our  chief. 

LAF.  Bring  him  to  me. 

{Enter  a  SPANIARD,  exit  SOLDIER.] 
Approach,  good  fellow  !     Art  thou  from  the  camp 
Of  Spain  ? 

SPAN.       I  am  ;  I  hope  it  will  please  you,  sir, 
I'm  charged  to  bear  this  letter  to  you. 

LAF.  Ha  !     Thou  God  !     It  is  Villere's  writing  ! 

MRS.  VIL.  Villere  ! 

Head!     Read!     Eead  !     What  does  he  say  ? 

LAF.  (reading).  "  My  dear  friend  : 

To  him  who  bears  this  I  have  promised  safety, 
And  from  you  a  rich  reward.     Garidel 
Has  proved  a  traitor  !     Plotted  with  Aubry  ! 
And  since  six  long  days  I've  been  confined 
On  board  a  Spanish  ship.     Console  my  wife 
And  gentle  Adelaide  ! " 

(MRS.  VILLERE  faints  and  falls  into  the  arms  of  the  SPANIARD,  while 
LAFRENIERE  exclaims.) 

Eternal  God ! 

He  has  escaped  me  !     O  Aubry  !     Aubry  ! 
Hadst  thou  but  come  an  hour  later  !     What  can  I  do  ? 
I  have  no  prisoners  who  are  worth  him  ; 
I'd  have  to  force  the  Spanish  camp  to  reach 
The  ship.     My  troops  are  much  too  raw.     Distraction ! 

MRS.  VIL.  (recovering).     Oh,  my  poor  heart !     Thou  art  quite 
hard  to  burst. 


450  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

(To  the  SPANIARD.)    Where  is  the  ship  ? — the  Spanish  ship  which 

holds 
My  husband — the  man  who  sent  you  here  ? 

SPAN.  A  mile 

Below  the  other  camp,  and  near  the  shore, 
It  lies.  [Exit  MRS.  VILLERE. 

LAF.  (who  has  not  seen  what  has  passed,  but  who  is  still  mus- 
ing).    Yes,  that's  the  only  way  to  save  him — yes. 
To-night,  assisted  by  th'  obscurity, 
I  go,  in  a  well-armed  boat,  below, 
To  burn  the  ship,  and  save  my  aged  friend — 
Ah  !     Where  is  the  lady  gone  \ 

SPAN.  She  went  out 

In  sorrow  overwhelmed. 

LAF.  Poor,  good  lady  ! 

She  hastes  too  much  to  tell  the  fatal  news 
Unto  her  daughter  and  her  friends.     Follow  !  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  2. — A  Spanish  ship  at  anchor  in  the  Mississippi,  near  the  bank  / 
two  boats  alongside  /  sailors  lounging  in  different  postures  /  the  sun 
setting  /  AUBRY  and  GARIDEL  on  deck. 

ATJB.  The  fool !     He  thinks  that  bravery  alone 
Can  the  Spaniards  in  this  crisis  serve.     Ha  ! 
I  know  a  secret  path  meandering 
Through  the  swamp,  by  which  I  can,  with  every  ease, 
Bring  in  his  rear  half  of  the  Spanish  host, 
While  in  his  front  the  other  half  cloth  charge. 

GAR.  Ha  !  ha  !     How  will  his  helter-skelter  band 
Oppose  Spain's  compact  legions  then  ?    But  say, 
How  has  the  poison  worked  ?     Did  you  inquire  ? 

AUB.  Yes ;  while  roving  about  the  city's  streets, 
I  met  a  slave  of  theirs.     The  thing  works  well, 
But  slowly  ;  each  day  a  change  for  Averse  is  seen. 
It  will  soon  break  out  in  all  its  frightfulness. 

GAR.  I  saw  her  use  it  ere  I  started  thence — 
Perhaps  she  does  so  even  now.     I  felt 
A  strange  pleasure  when  I  saw  it.     Aubry, 
Thou  didst  discover  regions  in  my  soul 
Which  ere  thou  cam'st  were  yet  untrodden.     Thanks 
Be  to  thee  for  thy  keen  perception.     I've  found 
My  element ;  soon  wilt  thou  see  me  swimming 
In  a  sea  of  blood. 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;  OR,  LOUISIANA  IN  1769.  451 

AUB.  (arising).     Garidel,  adieu, 
This  hour  must  I  meet  O'Reilly — he'll  not 
Be  driven  off  as  Don  Ulloa  was. 
To-night  I  lead  the  Spanish  troops  around  ; 
And  to-morrow  shall  Lafreniere's  blood 
Stream  out  with  bubbling  force,  and  I  shall  laugh 
To  see  it  flow. 

(He  enters  a  boat.) 
GAR.  Adieu,  good  master  Aubry ; 
I  wish  thee  much  success.     I'll  be  with  you 
If  my  duty  here  is  done  in  good  time. 
I've  yet  to  hang  old  father  Villere ; 

I  think  he'll  not  take  long  to  die.     Adieu.  [Exit  AUBRY. 

"Well,  now  that  darkness  has  commenced,  I  may 
Begin  this  old  rascal's  execution. 
My  men  !     To  work !     Prepare  the  rope — bring  up 
That  fellow  from  the  cabin.     We  shall  see 
How  he  can  dance  in  air ;  from  yonder  mast 
We'll  swing  him  off.     Ha  !  here  he  comes  !     I'll  try 
The  temper  of  his  soul,  in  this  dread  hour, 
E'en  in  its  tenderest  part. 

{Enter  VILLERE,  led  up  in  chains.~\ 

Sir  Villere, 

Good  news  I  bring  you — your  child  and  lady 
Soon  you'll  see. 

VIL.  O  Garidel !     Though  thou  hast 

Betrayed  me,  and  most  ungrateful  proved  ; 
Though  thou  hast  e'en  upbraided  me  for  all 
The  very  kindness  I've  heaped  upon  thee — 
Yet  I  would  pardon  all,  and  die  with  joy, 
Could  I  but  clasp  them  once — tyit  once — again, 
With  these  weak,  shackled  arms  ! 

GAR.  Well,  then,  'tis  gained  ; 

Soon  will  I  have  thy  pardon,  benefactor. 
Ye'll  meet  them  not  with  shackled  arms,  and  not 
To  quit  them  soon  again.     Come,  will  you  go  ? 

VIL.  Indeed  ! 

GAR.  I  do  assure  you  ! 

VIL.  (kneeling).  I  thank  thee 

With  lowly  and  confounded  wonder,  God  ! 
God  of  the  helpless,  receive  my  fervent 
Thanks. 


452  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

GAR.  Amen  ! 
(All  the  SAILORS  together.)    Amen  ! 

VIL.  (rising).  Well,  Garidel ! 

Do  I  go  now,  or  when  ? 

GAR.  Yes,  even  now. 

YIL.  Take  off  my  chains. 

GAR.  Not  yet ;  but  ye  shall  not 

Have  them  when  you  meet  your  wife  and  child. 

YIL.  Well,  well,  that's  all  I  care  for  ;  say,  go  I 
Within  that  boat  ? 

GAR.  No  !     By  a  shorter  road. 

(Pointing  to  the  rope  prepared  to  hang  YILLERE.) 
See  !     Yon  rope  shall  bear  thee  to  them. 
Thy  wife  and  child  will  meet  thee  in  the  grave. 

(GARIDEL  and  the  SAILORS  hurst  into  a  loud  laugh.) 

YIL.  (after  standing  a  while  confounded ).   Wretches ! 

{Enter  MRS.  YILLERE,  on  the  hank.'] 

MRS.  YIL.  My  husband  ! 

YIL.  God  !  is  this  a  dream  ( 

GAR.  No,  it  is  no  dream  !     'Tis  triumph !     Glory  ! 
Woman,  prepare  to  see  thy  husband  die  ! 

MRS.  YIL.  (kneeling].    Oh,  spare  him,  Garidel !   Oh,  remember, 
He  saved  thee  when  a  child  from  want  and  death, 
He  was  a  father  to  thee  in  thy  youth, 
He  loves  thee  with  paternal  love  !     Oh,  stay  ! 

0  Garidel,  have  pity  ! 

GAR.  Pity  ?     I  know  not 

What  you  mean.    '(MRS.  YILLERE  faints.) 

YIL.  Nay,  trifle  not  so  roughly  ; 

This  can't  be  serious  ;  'tis  a  cruel  play. 

1  will  go  to  my  wife  ;  she  awaits  me  there. 

GAR.  Ha  !  ha !     The  gallows  'tis  awaits  you,  sir  ! 
Oome,  prepare  the  rope — despatch ! 

YIL.  The  gallows  !     (Striking  GARIDEL.) 

Slave  !     Durst  thou  thus  insult  me  ? 

GAR.  (drawing  a  dagger).  Ha,  Yillere  ! 

This  dagger  was  given  me  for  thee  ! 

(Stabs  YILLERE  several  times.) 

YIL.  (falling).  God! 

I'm  dying !     My  child  !     My  wife !     My  country  !     (Dies.) 

MRS.  YIL.  (recovering).     Where  is  my  husband  ?     Did  he  not 
call  me  ? 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  453 

GAR.  (steeping  a  kerchief  in  VILLERE'S  blood).     Thy  husband, 
woman !     Here  is  his  blood ! 

(Throws  the  kerchief  to  her.} 
MRS.  YIL.  (staggering).  Oh  ! 

GAR.  Art  thou  not  satisfied  ?    Go,  join  him,  then ! 

(Fires  a  pistol  at  her;  she  falls  and  dies.} 
(At  that  moment  LAFRENIERE  rushes  in  along  the  shore,  accompanied 

by  armed  followers.} 

LAF.  Stop,  murderers  !     Ah,  ye  have  done  your  work  ! 
But  mine  begins  !     Fire  !       (The  soldiers  fire ;  GARIDEL  staggers.} 

GAR.  (falling}.  Lafreniere,  I  die ! 

But  I  await  thee  at  the  gates  of  hell.     (Falls.} 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  1. — LAFRENIERE'S  Camp.  LAFRENIERE'S  tent  in  the  background. 
The  bodies  of  MR.  and  MRS.  VILLERE  laid  out  on  a  litter  / 
LAFRENIERE  gazing  upon  them. 

LAF.  There — there  is  what  is  left  of  noble  man 
And  virtuous  woman.     There  Villere  lies, 
The  wise,  the  brave,  the  generous — a  man 
Respected,  loved  ;  he  had  a  crowd  of  friends, 
Who  shook  his  hands  and  clasped  him  in  their  arms  : 
Now  they  would  loathe  e'en  to  put  their  finger 
On  his  dead,  but  stately,  brow  ;  they'd  stand  round 
In  silence,  as  if  they  feared  to  wake  him 
From  the  marble  sleep  of  death,  and  look  on 
With  eyes  and  faces  which  would  seem  to  say, 
Can  he  be  dead  ?     What !  can  this  be  the  man — 
The  living  man  we  saw  but  yesterday  ? 
To-day,  God  !  what  could  have  done  this  ? 
By  some  slight  gashes  on  his  side  he  lieth  there 
The  senseless  mockery  of  what  he  was ! 
And  on  his  human  faculties  is  placed 
A  seal  as  lasting  as  eternity. 

{Enter  ADELAIDE,  extremely  pale  and  emaciated  /  he  does  not  see  her.] 
Thou  God  !  what  will  I  say  to  Adelaide  ? 
I'd  tremble  'neath  the  look  of  that  poor  girl, 
And  feel,  though  pure,  as  guilty  of  a  crime. 

ADE.  Lafreniere  ! 

LAF.  Heavens !     What  voice  is  that  \ 

No,  no,  it  cannot  be — thou  art  not  Adelaide ! 


454  POETR  Y— DRAMA  TIC. 

ADE.  O  Laf  reniere !  speak  not  such  dreadful  words. 
I  know  it — I  am  no  more  that  beauteous 
Adelaide  on  whom  ye  once  did  fix  the  gaze 
Of  love ;  but  though  now  but  the  ghost  of  what 
I  was — the  tattered  remnant  of  a  robe 
Which  once  was  rich  and  graceful — oh,  let  not 
This  new  deformity  drive  away  the  love 
Which  once  was  fostered  in  thy  breast 
For  me !     Oh,  make  me  not  loathe  e'en  myself  ! 
Know'st  thou  not  thine  Adelaide  ?    Say,  has  she  lost 
All  semblance  to  herself  ? 

LAF.  My  Adelaide !     (They  embrace.} 

ADE.  Laf  reniere  !     Ah !  well  mayst  thou  look  with  wide 
Astonished  eyes  upon  me.     Look,  look  on  ; 
But  try  to  look  with  love  and  not  disgust. 
Seest  thou  these  sunken,  tarnished  eyes — this 
Deadened  skin  which  leaves  the  unhealthy  flesh — 
These  lips,  which  thou  didst  oft  compare,  whene'er 
Amidst  the  bloom  of  spring  we  roved,  to  every 
Crimson  flower  thou  didst  pluck — these  lips, 
Like  those  now  withered  flowers,  have  faded  too. 

LAF.  Nay ;  rave  not  so,  my  own  dear  Adelaide, 
'Tis  only  passing  sickness — thou'lt  be  well 
In  some  few  days. 

ADE.  No,  no ;  believe  it  not. 

I  thought  so  too  ;  but  I  did  hear  them  say, 
In  whispers  which  they  thought  I  did  not  hear, 
'Twas  poison — 

LAF.  Poison  ? 

ADE.  Yes,  a  cankering 

Drug,  well  known  by  its  fell  workings  on  me, 
Which  on  my  skin  perfidious  hands  have  put, 
And  which  will  soon  (oh,  wilt  thou  love  me  then  ?) 
Break  out  in  putrid  sores  and  leaking  biles. 
Nay,  do  not  seem  thus  horror-struck. 

LAF.  OGod! 

It  cannot  be,  my  Adelaide.     Who  could  have  done 
So  infamous  a  deed  ?    What  hast  thou  done — 
Who  harmed — that  one  should  seek  thee  out  and  thus 
Deface  thy  cheek  with  his  polluted  hands  ? 

ADE.  Ah,  was  it  not  a  wanton  crime  ? 

LAF.  O  man !  what  can  exceed  thy  wickedness  ? 
That  enemy  of  every  breathing  thing, 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  455 

The  serpent  of  the  woods,  will  raise  his  head, 

Hiss,  and  shake  his  rattles  at  the  approach 

Of  unsuspecting  feet.     But  man,  the  greatest 

Enemy  of  man,  rejoiceth  in  the  blood 

Of  innocence ;  and,  while  wild  beasts  destroy 

To  get  their  food,  man — savage  man — doth  kill 

To  kill,  and  doth  amusement  find  to  see 

The  blood  ooze  out  of  wounds  his  hand  has  made. 

And  laughs  when  victims  writhe  in  death's  last  agony. 

ADB.  Ah,  Laf  reniere,  say  dost  thou  love  me  still  ? 

LAF.  If  I  do  love  thee,  Adelaide  ?    Ask  me 
If  this  warm  heart  still  beats ;  for  till  its  throbs 
Do  cease,  its  highest  bound  will  be  for  thee. 

ADE.  We  parted  last  in  anger.     'Twas  silly ; 
But  thou  wilt  not  chide  me,  Lafreniere, 
Though  'twas  a  jealous  whim,  for  sorrow  now 
Inflicts  the  punishment  upon  me.     Think, 
I  blush  to  tell  thee,  some  rival  enemy 
Of  thine — he  cannot  be  thy  rival  now, 
For  thy  love  hangs  not  on  the  flesh  as  doth 
The  love  of  common  men — yes,  that  rival 
Wrote  me  this,  and  I  believed  it — ah,  wilt 
Thou  love  me  less  ? 

LAF.  Astonishment !     Yes,  yes, 

'Tis  Aubry's  secret  hand  with  which  he  wrote 
That  false  perfidious  note  he  once  addressed 
To  Don  Ulloa,  full  of  monstrous  lies 
Against  his  countrymen.     Aubry !  Aubry ! 
Thy  deeds  will  soon  encounter  punishment. 
Thou  God,  turn  on  him  his  own  faithless  arms ; 
Bring  on  him,  though  not  from  Lafreniere' s  hands, 
The  lying  snares  he  knows  so  well  to  lay — 
The  poisoned  blades  he  can  so  well  direct. 

ADE.  (seeing  the  bodies,  but  not  recognizing).       Ah,  what !  has 

the  war  so  soon  been  fatal  ? 

Perhaps  some  orphan  o'er  each  body  there  will  weep 
A  father  slain.     Who  are  they,  Lafreniere  ? 

LAF.  (aside).  Thou  God,  what  can  I  do  to  ward  this  blow 
away  ? 

ADE.  Say,  were  they  good  and  virtuous  ? 

LAF.  They  were  indeed. 

ADE.  O  death !  why  dost  thou  not — whose  arm 
Guides  in  its  rapid  flight  the  fatal  ball, 


456  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

Directs  the  impending  sabre  where  to  strike — 

Why  dost  thou  not,  while  ruling  o'er  the  field, 

Select  such  victims  of  the  battle's  strife 

As  should  be  punished  by  thy  bloody  scythe  ? 

Preserve  the  father  for  his  anxious  child, 

And  pierce  the  heart  whose  wishes,  could  they  kill, 

Would  slay  a  husband  and  a  widow  make. 

Say,  had  they  children  ?     I  would  fain  console  them 

In  their  pains,  for  I  can  feel  how  strong  must  be 

The  pangs  which  tear  a  son's  or  daughter's  soul 

When  parted  from  a  father's  love  forever. 

LAF.  My  Adelaide,  look  not  so  on  that  dark 
Display  of  man's  frail  destiny,  but  come, 
For  much  emotion  suits  not  thy  weak  health. 
Within  my  tent  thou  mayest  rest  awhile. 
The  travel  from  the  town  must  have  fatigued 
Thee  much. 

ADE.  True.     But  is  my  mother  there  ? 

LAF.  Thy  mother? 

ADE.  Yes.  What  startles  you  so  much  ? 

Where  is  my  mother  ?  I  must  find  her  straight. 
She  went  from  home  to  seek  thee,  and  inquire 
If  news  you  had  of  my  father's  uncertain  fate. 
She  promised,  when  she  left  my  filial  arms, 
In  three  short  hours  to  be  back  again. 
But  what  disturbs  thy  countenance,  and  shakes 
Thy  body  thus  ?     Some  accident,  I  fear, 
Hath  to  my  mother  here  occurred. 

LAF.  No,  no. 

'Tis  the  humid  breath  of  evening  which  makes 
Me  feel  unwell.     Come,  come,  let's  hasten  in. 

ADE.  Nay,  nay !  I  came  to  seek  my  mother  here. 
Where  is  my  mother  ? 

LAF.  My  gentle  Adelaide, 

Why  wilt  thou  fret  so  much  ?     What  wouldst  thou,  girl, 
Should  happen  to  thy  mother  here  ? 

ADE.  Cruel ! 

Part  not  a  mother  from  her  child.     Oh,  sir, 
What  harm  has  crossed  her  path  ?     Shall  I  not  look 
Again  upon  her  features — kiss  her  cheek  ? 
Oh,  I  pray  you  by  the  love  to  me  you've  sworn, 
Give — give  me  back  my  mother ! 

LAF.  Adelaide, 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA  IN  1769.  457 

Have  courage,  girl.     How  can  I  tell  thee  all 
Unless  thou  hast  a  stouter  heart  ? 

ADE.  Oh,  yes ! 

I  see  it  now !     Some  fatal  accident 
Has  robbed  me  of  her !     Oh,  my  mother ! 
Where — O  Laf reniere,  where  is  my  mother  ? 
Let  me  embrace  her  even  if  she's  dead.     (She  turns  to  the  bodies  ) 

Ha! 

Can  it  be ! — those  bodies  !  (She  runs  towards  them.) 
LAF.  Adelaide ! 

ADE.  (uncovering  one  of  the  bodies).   Oh  !  (Faints.) 
LAF.  (taking  her  in  his  arms).  Too  tender  maid,  canst  thou 

withstand  this  shock  ? 
Or  has  it,  like  the  fiery  bolt  from  high, 
Destroyed  the  beating  life  within  thy  breast, 
And  borne  thy  soul  upon  its  wings  to  God  ? 
Halloo,  within  there ! 

[Enter  FIKST  SOLDIER.] 

Go,  call  the  surgeon 
Of  the  army — fly !     Tell  him  it  presses  much ! 

{Exit  FIRST  SOLDIER. 
[Exit  LAFRENIERE,  bearing  ADELAIDE  into  his  tent. 

[Enter  DENOYANT.] 

DEN.  Yes,  yes,  it  must  be  so ;  the  troops  I  see 
Advancing  in  our  rear  are  certainly 
The  promised  succors  from  the  country  sent ; 
They  have  a  martial  mien,  appear  well  ranged, 
And  firm  within  their  ranks.     (A  trumpet  sounds  distantly.)    Do 

I  hear, 

Or  are  my  ears  deceived  ?     A  Spanish  march 
Methinks  they  sound.     I  do  remember  well 
The  tune.     (The  trumpet  sounds  again.) 
{Enter  MARQUIS.] 

MARQ.  We  are  lost !  we  are  lost !  undone ! 
DEN.  Friend,  what  hast  thou  ? 

MARQ.  The  Spaniards,  on  our  rear, 

Approach  with  half  their  force.     See  them  advance ! 
Come,  let  us  haste  and  arm.  {Exeunt. 

{Enter  LAFRENIERE.] 

LAF.  Thank  God,  she  breathes ! 

But,  oh  !  she  will  not  long  survive  the  hour 
Which  loosed  the  band  which  held  on  earth  the  soul 
Of  parents,  whom  as  much  the  girl  did  love 


458  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

As  the  woodland  flower  doth  the  earth  and  shade 
By  which  'tis  nourished  and  'neath  which  it  grows. 
Once  taken  from  that  native  soil,  it  pines, 
Nor  can  attentive  hands  revive  its  drooping  life — 
No  man-made  showers,  nor  artificial  warmth, 
Can  stop  its  fading  or  arrest  its  death. 
\Enter  DENOYANT.] 

DEN.  See,  Lafreniere,  see !  the  Spaniards  come ! 

LAF.  Nay,  Denoyant !  seest  thou  not  they  come 
Upon  the  rear  ?    How  could  the  Spaniards  pass 
The  morass  on  our  left,  the  river  on  our  right? 
These  are  doubtless  succors,  come  at  last. 

DEN.  Nay,  sir.     Observe  their  discipline,  their  dress, 

(The  distant  trumpet  sounds  again.} 
And  listen  to  that  march. 

LAF.  My  doubts  are  gone. 

DEN.  And  Louisiana's  lost. 

LAF.  Not  so,  sir ! 

She  is  not  lost !     Are  our  hands  chopped  off  ? 
Are  we  not  Louisianians  yet  ? 
The  coming  fight  will  show  you,  sir,  what  can 
Men,  by  the  love  of  Liberty  impelled, 
'Gainst  venal  hirelings  to  tyrants  sold. 

DEN.  On  our  front  too — see,  sir — the  enemy 
Is  marshalling  his  men. 

LAF.  To  arms  !  to  arms  ! 

Haste  thee,  Denoyant,  and  bear  the  order. 
Let  the  drum  beat  the  call  to  arms.     Send  here 
The  chief  commander  of  each  regiment. 

{Exit  DENOYANT. 

(Kneeling^    Eternal  God !  thou  knowest  all  the  deep 
Sincerity  of  this  uncorrupted  heart ; 
And  though  'mongst  men  my  bearing  has  been  proud, 
Before  thy  throne  I've  always  humbly  bowed. 
God !  thou  who  pourest  out,  with  equal  hand, 
Into  the  current  of  unstaying  time, 
Joy's  limpid  stream  and  sorrow's  cup  of  brine, 
Send  not  to  me  an  unalloyed  draught  of  gall, 
But  let  some  sweet  be  mingled  with  the  pain 
Which  of  late  days  has  fallen  to  my  share. 
But  if  against  me  only  thou  art  angered, 
Then  let  thy  wrath  descend  on  me  alone ; 
And  save  my  country  from  the  ills  which  I 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  459 

Should  suffer  by  thy  wisdom's  stern  decree. 
God !     By  thy  strong  will  our  struggles  aid, 
And  send  confusion  through  the  ranks  of  those 
Who  make  Thy  name  a  frightening  password 
To  the  greatest  crimes.     God,  I  pray  thee  for 
My  country's  liberty.     Liberty,  the  gift 
Which  thou  didst  give  to  man  e'en  from  his  birth, 
Shall  it  be  wrested  from  his  hand  to-day  ? 
Thou  didst  not  destine  him  for  slavery 
When  thou  didst  make  him  like  unto  thyself, 
And  stamped  him  in  the  holy,  perfect  mould 
Of  thine  own  intelligence  and  beaut  v. 
Shall  this  proud  soul  which  liveth  here,  and  which, 
By  thine  own  lungs,  was  breathed  into  this  breast, 
Be  cramped  within  the  carcass  of  a  slave  ? 
It  cannot  be !     I  feel  thine  impulse  now  ; 
And  victory  for  us  will  soon  make  this  day 
A  day  of  record  on  our  grateful  hearts,     (ffises.) 
[Enter  several  officers,  among  whom  are  MARQUIS,  MILHET,  and 

CARREEE.] 

(The  drums  heat  the  call,  and  the  cry  is  heard.) 
To  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms  ! 
[Enter  DENOYANT.] 

DEN.  A  herald  from  the  Spanish  line  awaits. 

LAF.  Bring  him  to  me. 

[Enter  a  SPANISH  HERALD.] 

Well,  Spaniard,  what  wouldst  thou  \ 

HER.  Dost  thou  command  these  hostile  bands  ? 

LAF.  I  do. 

HER.  I  come  a  messenger  of  peace.     If  you 
And  yours  surrender  ere  the  tight,  ye  shall 
Be  treated  with  humanity,  and  all 
Your  vain  rebellion  pardoned. 

LAF.  What !  pardoned ! 

Sirrah !     Go,  tell  your  master  'tis  in  vain 
He  thinks  to  cheat  us  with  his  futile  tricks. 
We  know  how  far  a  Spaniard  we  can  trust. 
His  rancor  can  be  only  cooled  with  blood  ; 
His  falsehood  teaches'him  to  kill  the  man 
He  hates,  e'en  while  he  greets  him  with  a  kiss. 
Go,  tell  your  chief  that  pardon  we  ne'er  ask, 
But  from  our  God  for  sins  against  his  law. 
Pardon,  indeed !     We  disdain  his  offer  ; 


460  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

And  rather  much. would  give  him  our  blood 
Than  take  his  favors,  though  he  tenders  life. 

HER.  Then  must  I  tell  you  that  without  delay 
The  battle  will  begin  on  our  part. 

LAF.  We  are  prepared. 

[Exit  HERALD- 

(To  the  officers.}     Is  all  ready,  gentlemen, 
To  face  the  enemy  ?     Can  I  depend 
Upon  the  bravery  and  the  firmness 
Of  the  men  of  all  your  companies  ? 

OFFICERS.  You  can  !  you  can ! 

LAF.  Well,  then,  the  word  shall  be, 

Charge  on  for  liberty  !     When  ye  return, 
And  take  the  head,  each  of  his  separate  band, 
Ye'll  tell  the  soldiers  that  it  is  my  plan 
To  break  the  foe  who  pens  us  in  the  rear, 
And  then  to  intrench  again  beyond  them. 
Tell  them  that  if  we  fail  in  this  design, 
Our  country's  lost,  and,  what  is  ten  times  worse, 
We  lose  our  freedom,  ne'er  to  get  it  back. 
Try  ye  to  inspire  each  soldier  with  a  firm 
Kesolve  to  die  or  to  be  free.     Remember, 
That  on  our  arms  to-day  depends  the  fame, 
The  future  reputation  of  our  country ; 
And  on  this  day  we  heroes  make  ourselves, 
Or  gain  the  base  and  ignominious  name 
Of  slaves.     Sirs,  remember  that !  and  when  ye  charge 
Upon  those  Spanish  dogs,  shout  the  loud  cry 
Of  Liberty  into  their  ears.    'Twill  make 
The  rascals  shrink  and  fly  ;  and  like  the  damned, 
Whose  power  fails  when  saints  appeal  to  Christ, 
These  slaves  will  prostrate  fall,  when  high  are  raised 
The  voice  and  arm  of  patriots  unstained, 

For  martyrdom  prepared.  [Exeunt. 

[Enter  ADELAIDE  and  SURGEON  from  the  tentJ] 

SURG.  Lady!  lady! 

You  need  for  rest.     Why  will  you  leave  your  bed, 
To  strain  yourself  by  this  exertion  great  ? 
This  hard  struggle  'gainst  your  weakness  now 
Will  hurt  you  much,  and  may  be  fatal  to  you. 

ADE.  I  pray  to  God,  good  surgeon,  that  it  will. 
Death  cannot  come  too  soon  upon  me  now, 
For  now  he  parts  me  from  my  parents  dear. 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  461 

The  blow  which  struck  them  reached  the  feeble  thread 
On  which  my  life  doth  hang  ;  and  now  I'll  knock 
With  arm  untiring  at  the  door  of  Death, 
Until  he  gives  me  entrance  through  that  gate 
At  whose  dread  portal  has  been  left  the  dust 
Of  those  who  were  my  dearest  love  on  earth. 

(She  goes  to  the  bodies;  drums  beat  the  charge,  firing  and  shouts  are 

heard.) 

SURG.  Lady !  lady  !  for  heaven's  sake,  retire. 
The  battle's  raging,  and  some  straying  ball 
May  strike  you  dead.     Come ;  I  will  bring  you 
To  some  safer  place,  where,  from  these  flying  deaths, 
You'll  sheltered  be.  (Firing,  drums,  and  shouts.) 

ADE.  Wot  so.     Here  let  me  weep, 

And  call  on  Death.     He'll  hear  the  better  here, 
For  he  is  near  me  in  an  hundred  shapes. 
O  father !  mother !  why  are  the  deadly  strokes, 
Which  fell  on  ye  so  lavishly,  withheld 
From  me,  whose  heart  would  leap  to  meet  them  now  ? 

(Firing,  drums,  and  shouts.) 
\Enter  LAFRENIERE.] 

LAF.  (throwing  away  his  sword).      Go  from  my  hand,  thou 

useless  trash !     Lost !  lost ! 

Thrice  did  our  soldiers  charge,  and  thrice  repulsed ; 
They  strive  in  vain  to  form  their  broken  ranks  ; 
By  myriads  stopped,  though  myriads  they  have  slain, 
'Twere  vain  to  try  to  bring  them  on  again. 
In  small  detachments  scattered  o'er  the  field, 
They  fight  surrounded  by  the  compact  lines 
Of  mercenary  troops — full  ten  times  more 
In  numbers.     God  !  God !     Can  I  not  something  do 
To  turn  the  current  of  the  day  ?     Ah,  yes ! 
There — there — I  see  a  rallied  regiment !     (Shouts.) 
Nay !  nay  !  nay  !  poor  weakened  eyes,  they're  Spanish  troops. 

(Shouts.) 

Yes,  ye  demons,  stretch  forth  your  glutted  throats, 
Which  gurgle  with  the  blood  to-day  ye've  drank. 
Let  it  be  heard  'midst  hell's  eternal  fires, 
And  let  the  damned  reecho  up  the  cry, 
Turned  to  a  shout  of  victory  'gainst  God ! 

(Spanish  soldiers  rush  in.) 


462  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

FIRST  SPANISH  SOLDIER.  Kill  him !  it  is  their  chief. 

ADE.  (rushing  forward  and  shielding  LAFRENIERE).    Nay,  nay ! 

not  so ! 
Ye  cowards !  ye  shall  kill  a  woman  first  1 

(The  curtain  drops.} 

DREAM   OF   LAFKENIERE. 

(BETWEEN  THE  FOURTH  AND  FIFTH  ACTS.) 
LAFRENIERE  appears  sleeping  in  a  prison. 

The  prison  vanishes,  and  a  landscape  appears  ;  a  wide  river  flow^s 
through  the  centre ;  and  on  each  side  of  it,  extensive  forests  and 
uncultivated  fields  are  seen.  On  one  side  stands  a  throne,  on  which 
a  personification  of  Europe  is  seated,  holding  a  sceptre,  and  having  a 
lash  and  fetters  lying  at  her  feet.  A  personification  of  Louisiana  sits 
weeping,  chained  to  the  throne ;  plaintive  music,  and  pantomime 
expressive  of  the  distress  of  Louisiana,  and  of  the  despotism  and 
cruelty  of  Europe. 

The  music  gradually  changes  to  more  stern  and  threatening  tones ; 
the  sky  darkens  ;  clouds  appear ;  the  thunder  is  heard,  and  the  light- 
ning flashes. 

A  thunderbolt  strikes  the  throne,  which  crumbles  to  pieces,  while 
Europe  is  thrown  prostrate  on  the  earth. 

The  gloom  is  dispelled,  the  clouds  disappear,  the  music  is  joyful, 
and  Louisiana  exults. 

Liberty  appears  descending  from  above,  bearing  the  American  flag. 
Above  the  head  of  Liberty  seventeen  stars  [representing  the  number 
of  States  of  the  Union  at  the  time  Louisiana  was  admitted]  appear 
arranged  in  a  circle  around  the  words  "  CONSTITUTION,"  "  UNION." 

Liberty  approaches  and  takes  off  the  fetters  of  Louisiana,  saying : 
"  Arise,  my  child,  rejoin  thy  sisters.  Thou  art  free."  They  embrace 
each  other,  while  Liberty  points  to  the  Star  of  Louisiana  rising  in  the 
sky,  and  ranging  itself  with  the  others. 

"  Hail,  Columbia,"  breaks  forth,  and  to  that  tune  the  fields  flourish, 
cities  rise,  boats  and  ships  ply  upon  the  river,  and  busy  crowds  of 
people  thicken  on  the  landscape. 

The  prison  resumes  awhile  its  appearance,  and  again  disappears 
to  give  place  to  a  dark  curtain,  on  which  suddenly  appears  a  circle  of 
portraits  (drawn  in  white)  representing  the  Kevolutionary  heroes  and 
worthies,  with  Washington  in  the  centre. 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  463 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  1. — A  Prison.     LAFRENIERE  fettered,  and  chained  to  a  ring 

the  wall. 

LAF.  O  Liberty,  thou  art  not  invincible ! 
Slaves  by  plunder  baited  have  o'erthrown  thee, 
And  thus  it  seems,  that  hearts  inclined  to  crime 
Do  feel  for  crime  as  great  enthusiasm, 
As  souls  which  take  their  fire  from  the  skies 
Do  in  the  acting  of  a  virtuous  deed. 

0  my  country !  and  art  thou  then  like  me 
Chained,  fettered,  and  beneath  a  tyrant's  foot  ? 
Ah !  was  green  America  sought  in  vain 

By  Pilgrim  Fathers,  flying  'cross  the  main 

To  seek  a  refuge  from  oppression's  rod  ? 

Were  its  wide  forests,  where  untutored  men 

Live  'neath  the  shade  of  the  tall  magnolia — 

Were  its  broad  rivers,  'gainst  whose  current  nought 

But  the  Indian's  light  canoe  can  ply — 

Was  its  free  soil,  from  whence  civilization's  foot 

Not  yet  treads  down  and  wears  the  verdure  off — 

Were  these  unto  degrading  slavery  doomed  ? 

Oh,  no ;  it  cannot  be  !     And  still  I  hope. 

Last  night,  when  dragged  across  the  horrid  field,. 

Where  hundreds  of  my  countrymen  laid  dead, 

Pierced  by  mercenary  swords  and  balls, 

1  was  thrown  here,  within  this  dungeon  dark — 
Long  did  I  weep  Louisiana's  fall, 

Till  sorrow's  fount  was  drained  all  dry  : 

Sleep  came  at  last,  and  closed  my  heavy  eyes 

To  ope  imagination's  lids  on  worlds 

Unknown,  and  in  prophetic  dreams  to  wake 

Midst  future  days.     I  saw,  though  Death  metheught 

Did  press  me  down  with  his  unbending  arm, 

My  country  in  a  veil  of  darkness  wrapped, 

Her  wrists  and  ankles  worn  by  clinching  chains, 

Her  back  all  marked  with  deep  and  bleeding  stripes, 

And  moaning  'midst  her  sufferings.     But  soon 

The  darkness  vanished,  and  a  brilliant  light 

Dispersed  the  clouds  which  hung  around  in  gloom ; 

And  forth  appeared,  in  shining  radiance, 

A  youth  whose  air  spoke  Freedom,  and  whose  frame 


464  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

Was  built  with  strength  and  grace  ;  in  his  right  hand 

A  palm  and  sword  he  held,  and  in  his  left 

A  scroll  on  which  eternal  truths  were  written, 

And  a  floating  banner,  where,  in  beauty 

Elended,  were  the  white,  and  blue,  and  red, 

In  fulgent  stars  and  flowing  stripes  disposed. 

He  broke  her  bonds,  and  with  his  manly  voice 

Exclaimed,  "  Go,  join  thy  sisters ;  thou  art  free." 

[Enter  ADELAIDE.] 

Adelaide  !     What  miracle  has  oped  the  door 
Of  this  gloomy  dungeon  to  let  thee  in  ? 

ADE.  Lafreniere,  I  bring  thee  news  of  freedom  ! 
With  gold — what  Spaniard  can  resist  its  lure  ? — 
I've  gained  thy  jailer,  and  to-night  thou  flyest. 

LAF.  Fly  !     Lady,  no  !     Here  will  I  stay,  and  meet 
My  fate,  whate'er  it  be. 

ADE.  And  that  is  death, 

If  thou  dost  here  remain. 

LAF.  A  brave  man's  death 

Is  better  than  a  coward's  flight. 

ADE.  'Tis  true. 

•Couldst  thou  defend  thyself,  I'd  rather  see 
Thee  fighting  sword  in  hand,  than  aid  thy  flight ; 
But  here  assassination  doth  await  thee, 
And,  while  thou  sleepest,  treachery  will  plunge 
His  poisoned  knife  into  thy  noble  heart. 

LAF.  I  care  not  how  these  Spaniards  end  my  life  ; 
My  destiny  is  fixed.     In  freedom's  cause 
To  die,  is  greater,  in  my  estimation, 
Than  dragging  out  in  vile  obscurity 
An  useless  life.     To-day  it  is  the  richest  prize 
My  country's  conquerors  have  gained. 
"Well,  let  them  have  it,  while  'tis  worth  a  crime. 
Thy  father,  girl,  is  laid  among  the  martyrs 
Who  yesterday  did  shed  their  blood  and  die 
For  liberty.     What !     Shall  /  shrink  away 
And  dread  the  example  he  has  set  me  ? 

ADE.  Then  there  was  hope,  but  now — 

LAF.  Honor  and  glory 

Yet  remain  to  be  completely  gained. 

ADE.  Nay, 

Lafreniere,  if  thou  lovest  me,  leave  these  vain 
Aspirings.     Listen.     There  is  an  aged 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;    OR,  LOUISIANA  IN  1769.  465 

African,  who  seeing,  as  I  passed  by, 

The  threatened  dissolution  of  my  features, 

Offered  to  give  me  certain  antidotes 

For  the  evil  which  afflicts  me  now. 

Lafreniere,  thou  art  now  the  only  prop 

Round  which  my  life's  weak  vine  will  twine  itself : 

My  father — mother — both  have  been  snapped  off, 

And  if  thou  fallest,  Adelaide  falls  too. 

LAF.  God,  give  me  strength  to  meet  this  trial  hard ! 

ADE.  I  will  fly  with  thee  to  some  distant  land  ; 
And  there,  in  wedded  love,  we'll  live  in  peace, 
Blest  by  contentment  and  a  quiet  home. 

LAF.  "Tis  wrong  to  put  into  my  hands  thy  fate ; 
Why  with  dilemma  thus  surround  me  ? 
On  one  side,  honor,  the  fame  I  cherish, 
Call  me  to  stay  and  die ;  on  the  other, 
My  love,  thy  happiness  and  threatened  life, 
Unite  to  make  me  swerve  from  duty's  path. 
Adelaide,  thou  art  unjust ;  assist  me 
Eather  to  preserve  my  fame  unspotted, 
And  tempt  me  not  to  play  a  shameful  part. 

ADE.  'Tis  said  the  northern  colonies  have  raised, 
And  threaten  rebellion  against  England. 
Go,  join  them,  and  for  freedom  fight  with  them. 

LAF.  I've  sworn  to  free  my  country  or  to  die  ! 

ADE.  Dost  thou  refuse  ? 

LAF.  I  do. 

(She  sinks  down  upon  a  seat.} 
Nay,  Adelaide, 
Sustain  thyself  with  better  courage. 

[Enter  AUBKY.] 

Aubry  here ! 

AUB.  Ha  !  ha  !     "Well,  my  good  sir,  what  say  you  now  ? 
Ha  !     You  have  struck — heaped  insults  on  me — 
Called  me  a  coward.     "Well,  you  spoke  the  truth. 
Say,  what  think  ye  of  a  coward's  vengeance  ? 

(LAFKENIEKE  rushes  at  him,  but  is  stopped  ~by  the  chain.) 
No,  no !     I  had  these  chains  too  well  prepared. 

ADE.  Monster ! 

AUB.  Ha  !  Foolish  wench !     "What  dost  thou  here  ? 

"Well,  'tis  a  double  blow  I'll  strike.     Listen. 
Ye  know  not  all  I've  done  against  you  both. 


466  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

'Twas  I  seduced  that  rascal  Garidel 

To  place  bis  master  in  the  Spaniard's  hand, 

To  pour  a  poison  over  this  maiden's  beauty, 

(LAFRENIERE  strains  to  break  his  chains,  and  sinks  down  in  the  effort, 
trembling  with  rage.) 

Keep  cool,  good  sir,  that  is  not  half.     'Twas  I 

Who  made  him  plunge  a  dagger  in  the  heart 

Of  Villere. 

ADE.        God!     God!     (Faints.) 

AUB.  What !     Faint  already  ? 

Halloo  without  there ! 

\Enter  JAILER.] 

Here,  jailer,  take  out 
This  foolish  girl,  and  throw  her  in  the  ditch. 

[Exit  JAILEE  bearing  out  ADELAIDE. 

So,  sir,  you  have  freed  your  country,  have  you  ? 

A  great  and  mighty  general  indeed  ! 

Poor — foolish — vain — rash — green — hot-headed — boy! 

What !     Did  you  think  to  thwart  a  man  like  me '( 

Thy  wild  ambition  showed  the  crazy  youth, 

And  not  a  man  to  lead  an  army  on. 

Why  were  not  the  outskirts  of  your  army 

Better  guarded  ?     I  led  the  Spaniards  round 

And  came  upon  your  rear,  nor  even  met 

A  single  scout  until  our  drums  ye  heard. 

Ay,  sir  !     To  me  you  owe  your  fall.     Say, 

What  think  you  of  the  puny  coward  now  ? 

LAF.  (rising).  Aubry,  I  do  despise  thee  still,  and  still 
I  do  defy  thee  !     Do  thy  worst !     All's  not  done — 
/  still  exist.     Why  am  I  not  murdered  ? 
Ye  cannot  lack  for  those  who'd  do  the  deed ; 
The  country's  full  of  Spaniards  now. 

AUB.  Be  sure 

I  will  not  leave  my  work  unfinished  thus, 
Nor  can  you  teach  me  how  to  do  it,  boy. 
Ye  shall  not  be  murdered  in  the  dark.     No  ! 
I'll  have  you  ended  on  the  public  square. 
I'll  have  you  tried,  condemned  in  form,  and  shot ! 
You  shall  have  company  ;  four  of  your  friends, 
Denoyant,  Carrere,  Milhet,  and  Marquis, 
Have  been  already  sentenced. 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  467 

LAF.  Wretch ! 

AUB.  They  come. 

Your  judges  here  advance  ;  and,  what  is  more, 
I  am  their  colleague  named. 

LAF.  Thou ! 

AUB.  Yes,  sir,  I ! 

[Enter  two  JUDGES  and  a  SCRIBE.     They  seat  themselves  at  a  table 
together  with  AUBKY.] 

FIRST  JUDGE.  Is  this  the  man  ? 

AUB.  It  is. 

FIRST  JUDGE.  Of  heinous  crimes, 

Against  your  rightful  king,  you  are  accused. 
You  have  upraised  sedition  in  this  province  ; 
You  have  been  the  chief  of  discontented  bands  ; 
You  have  led  them  on  against  the  army 
Sent  by  his  Majesty  Most  Catholic, 
Our  gracious  lord  and  master,  Charles  the  Third, 
By  grace  of  God  King  of  Spain  and  India, 
To  take  possession  of  his  proper  claim, 
And  legal  acquisition — in  one  word, 
High  treason  is  your  crime. 

LAF.  Most  wise  judges, 

Do  I  well  hear  your  words  ?     Is  it  to  judge 
Ye  come,  or,  most  sage  and  sapient  judges, 
Am  I  condemned  already  ?     Mark  your  words  : 
"  You  have  upraised  sedition  in  this  land, 
You  have  been  the  chief  of  discontented  bands, 
You  have  "-       "  You  have,"  good  sirs,  be  not  so  swift ;. 
Convict  me  first,  and  then  my  sentence  read. 

AUB.  Colleague,  proceed  in  better  form.     Ask  first 
His  name. 

LAF.         You're  right,  let  it  be  done  in  form, 
Let  me  be  murdered  legally. 

FIRST  JUDGE.  Mind,  sir, 

"With  more  respect  your  judges  treat.     Speak, 
But  no  insulting  language  use.     Say, 
What  is  your  name  ? 

LAF.  Great  Judge  !     That  very  name 

Is  the  greatest  insult  I  can  speak 
When  I  address  ye ;  and  by  to-morrow 
'Twill  be  a  greater  insult  still.     It  is — 
For  I  am  proud  to  speak  it — Lafreniere  ! 


468  POETR  Y— DRAMA  TIC. 

FIRST  JUDGE.     (To  SECRETARY.)     Write.       (To  LAFRENIERE.) 
Your  birthplace  ? 

LAF.  Most  pleased  am  I  to  answer. 

I  am  a  Creole,  born  in  ISTew  Orleans. 

FIRST  JUDGE.  Your  profession  ? 

LAF.  An  advocate. 

FIRST  JUDGE.  Your  age  ? 

LAF.  Out,  dastards  !     I'll  parley  no  more  with  ye. 
Ye  know  me — who  I  am,  and  what  I  am ; 
And  I  plead  guilty  in  every  point 
On  which  ye  do  accuse  me — ay,  guilty  ! 
And  glory  in  what  ye  call  a  crime.     Go ! 
I  hate  your  nation  and  your  tyrant  King, 
I  weep  that  I  cannot  destroy  ye  all, 
I  moan  my  country's  enslaved  destiny, 
I  pant  to  die  ere  ye  have  washed  your  hands 
Of  all  the  blood  ye  shed  on  yesterday. 
Go !     I  have  enough  of  mockery. 

AUB.  Ye  hear, 

He  doth  confess. 

FIRST  JUDGE  (to  SCRIBE).     Proceed  !     Bead  the  sentence. 

LAF.  What !     Was  it  ready  written  up  ?    Why,  ye  ape 
But  ill  your  parts. 

SCRIBE  (reading).     "  Lafreniere,  found  guilty, 
In  due  form,  of  high  treason  'gainst  the  King, 
Is  by  this  honorable  court  condemned, 
Within  an  hour  hence,  to  die." 

LAF.  Thank  ye,  kind  gentlemen,  ye  could  not  more 
Give  pleasure  to  me  ;  know,  I  kiss  your  hands, 
Ye  grant  me  e'en  my  heart's  core  wish. 

[Exit  AUBRY,  SCRIBE,  and  JUDGES. 

Oh,  yes  ; 

To-day  my  name  is  written  in  the  sacred  book — 
The  purest,  chosen  page  of  history. 
From  now  my  cherished  name  will  live 
Immortal  in  the  hearts  of  freemen — 
The  Louisianian's  future  pride. 
He'll  shout  my  name  unto  the  skies  ; 
He'll  place  it  first  upon  the  monument 
His  heart  will  raise  to  virtue,  surrounded 
By  a  glorious  halo  !     Eternal  God  ! 
I  come — I  come — already  crowned  before  thee, 
The  unstained  martyr  of  bright  Liberty ! 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  469 

Liberty  !  the  first  and  greatest  dogma 
Thou  dost  teach  us  in  thy  book  of  nature. 

[Enter  FIRST  SPANISH    SOLDIER,  accompanied  by   other  soldiers,  with 
reversed  muskets  ;  and  the  JAILER.     The  drum  ~beats  a  dead  march.] 
FIRST   SPANISH   SOLDIER.     Art  thou  prepared   to  go?     Hast 

made  thy  prayer? 
LAF.  What  I  have  asked  of  God,  ye  grant  me  now. 

(JAILER  takes  off  the  chains.}  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  2.— The  Public  Square. 
[Enter  a  RUFFIAN.] 

EUF.  The  citizens  have  fled  as  if  a  pestilence 
Infected  all  this  section  of  the  city ; 
The  place  is  desolate  e'en  as  'twere  night. 
'Tis  here  they'll  shoot  the  Creole  chief  to-day. 
A  fine  time  this  to  rob  some  straying  fool : 
If  some  rich  scoundrel  now  would  only  pass 
Across  this  green,  how  quick  I'd  murder  him, 
And  rob  him  of  his  gold !     Ah,  some  one  comes ! 
By  the  Holy  Virgin,  it  is  Aubry, 
For  whom  we  seized  the  old  man  in  the  forest ! 
He's  loaded,  doubtless,  with  the  riches  gained 
By  turning  traitor  to  his  countrymen. 
I'm  tempted  strong  to  let  him  pass  along, 
For  he  is  one  of  us  who  kill  and  steal 
And  take  false  oath.     Ha !  he  lets  fall  a  purse. 
Pshaw  !  he  picks  it  up.     Saints  !  'tis  full  of  gold ! 
By  the  holy  cross,  I'll  have  it !     (Retires^ 
[Enter  AUBRY.] 

AUB.  'Tis  well! 

My  work  is  done.     I  am  revenged,  and  now, 
With  all  the  riches  I  have  gained,  I'll  go 
To  Europe  and  enjoy  myself.     But 
I  must  behold  Lafreniere  e'er  I  go. 
To-day  he  takes  his  crown  of  glory,  and 
'Tis  my  purpose  here  to  calculate,  with  care, 
The  different  value  of  his  gain  from  mine.  (Holding  up  the  purse.} 
Money  !  who'd  not  worship  thee  is  but  a  fool. 
What  is  fame,  honors,  titles,  place,  to  thee  ? 
Though  I'm  a  coward  and  a  criminal, 
More  men  will  bow  to  me,  and  envy  me, 
And  yield  to  my  desires,  than  will  e'er  recall 


470  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

The  memory  of  this  great  Lafreniere. 

Learn  to  make  money,  and  then  ye  may 

Dispense  with  further  knowledge.     Gain  riches  ; 

It  decks  the  bearer  more  than  wisdom  would, 

It  is  the  power  of  a  mighty  prince, 

It  is  a  brilliant  title  to  one's  name. 

See  !     It  has  no  smell  nor  pleasing  taste, 

"Tis  rigid  to  the  touch,  and  yonder  flower 

Which  blooms  unnoticed  in  the  grass 

Exceeds  it  far  in  beauty ;  yet  I 

Have  been  as  false  and  cruel  as  the  tiger 

To  obtain  it,  and  still  I  think  the  prize 

Was  quickly,  cheaply  gained. 

Why  come  they  not  ? 
I'll  go  and  see  whence  this  delay. 

[Exit  ATTBRY,  followed  cautiously  by  the  KUFFIAN. 
AUBRY  (without).  Murder !  Oh  ! 

{The  drum  is  heard  beating  a  dead  march,  gradually  approaching /  the 
orchestra  plays  soft  and  mournful  musicJ) 

\Enter  LAFRENIERE  escorted  as  before,  and  accompanied  by  DEKOY- 
ANT,  MILHET,  MARQUIS,  and  CARRERE  ;  the  soldiers  range  themselves  on 
the  right  side.'] 

LAF.  'Tis  triumph  !  more  glorious  than  the  pomp 
Which  glittered  round  a  Eoman  conqueror. 
I  envy  not  the  wreath  that  CaBsar  wore 
When,  from  Pharsalia's  field,  he  trod  on  Eome. 
His  coronet  was  steeped  in  freemen's  blood, 
Mine  shall  be  wet  with  their  regretful  tears ; 
He  sought  to  fetter  Rome  in  slavery, 
I  tried  to  make  my  native  country  free ; 
He  died  with  usurpation's  hand  outstretched, 
I  fall  the  martyr  of  bright  liberty. 
And  could  I  envy  Ca3sar  now  ?     Oh,  no ! 
Like  him  I  failed  to  gain  a  prize  most  dear, 
Yet  do  I  die  more  proudly  than  he  died ; 
For  this  I  leave  behind — a  virtuous  name. 
{To  his  companions.)     My  friends,  I  greet  you  joyfully 
As  parties  to  a  festive  revelry, 
As  bridegrooms  on  their  wedding  day, 
As  saints  who  take  their  crown  of  sanctity ! 
This  day  the  blood  we'll  here  together  spill 


THE  MARTYR  PATRIOTS;   OR,  LOUISIANA   IN  1769.  471 

Will  rise  into  a  monument  of  fame, 
Will  nourish  seeds  of  freedom  in  this  soil, 
And  bless  our  country  with  five  patriot  names. 
Denoyant,  say !  since  Freedom's  cause  is  lost, 
Couldst  thou  wish  aught  more  glorious  than  this, 
The  death  of  freemen  for  their  country  slain  ? 

DEN.  Ay,  and  who  still  defy  the  tyrant's  power ; 
For  though  he  slay  us,  and  revengefully 
Should  drag  our  bodies  in  ignoble  dust, 
Yet,  here  or  hence,  our  souls  are  ever  free, 
And  spurn  the  mandates  of  his  tyranny. 

MARQ.  Unto  us  now  the  value  of  this  life 
Is  wholly  lost ;  a  foreign  master  treads 
Upon  our  native  land. 

MIL.  How  could  we  live 

Beneath  the  rule  of  such  inhuman  slaves  ? 
Their  hands  are  red  with  Villere's  honored  blood. 

CAR.  To  me  now  death  has  all  of  freedom's  charms  ; 
For  death  will  burst  oppressive  chains. 

LAF.  'Tis  well ! 

Dear  friends,  now  let  us  yield  our  ready  breasts 
Unto  the  bullets  of  these  murderers, 
Who  bring  disgrace  upon  the  soldier's  garb. 

(To  the  FIRST  SPANISH  SOLDIER.)     Come  !  why  lag  you  thus  your 
duty  to  perform  ? 

(The  SOLDIER  offers  to  bandage  his  eyes.) 
Not  so !     Think  ye  we  cannot  look  on  death  ? 
Thou  hast  already  seen  us  look  it  in  the  face. 
Where  shall  Ave  stand  ? 

FIRST  SPANISH  SOLDIER.  Yonder,  between  the  trees. 

LAF.  And  now,  my  native  land,  but  one  more  glance, 
And  then  I'll  close  my  eyes  in  death  with  joy. 
Adieu,  blue  sky  and  verdant  foliage, 
'JSeath  which,  when  but  a  child,  I  loved  to  play 
With  bounding  limbs  and  fluttering  heart, 
Adieu  !    I  look  no  more  with  pleasure  on  ye — 
Ye  are  no  more  what  I  did  love  ye  for. 

(  While  LAFRENIERE  is  speaking,  his  companions  retire  behind  the  scenes 
on  the  left.     Exit  LAFRENIERE,  same  side.} 

LAF.  (without).  Now — now !  with  hand  in  hand  we'll  fall  at 

once 
For  right  and  liberty ! 


472  POETR  Y— DRAMA  TIC. 

FIRST  SPANISH  SOLDIER.    Are  you  prepared  ? 

LAF.  (outside}.     We  are  ! 

FIRST  SPANISH  SOLDIER.  Soldiers,  attention  !     Ready  !     Aim ! 

LAF.  (outside).     Liberty  forever ! 

FIRST  SPANISH  SOLDIER.  Fire ! 

(As  the  soldiers  fire,  ADELAIDE  rushes  in  between  them  and  LAFRE- 
NIERE,  and  falls  wounded.  LAFRENIERE  staggers  in,  mortally  wounded, 
in  several  parts  of  the  body,  cmd  falters  towards  her.) 

LAF.  God  !  she  is  killed. 

Adelaide !  Adelaide ! 

ADE.  I  thank  that  ball — 

By  my  torn  side — it  lets  in  death — ah — love — 
Dost  thou  still  live  ? — Lafreniere,  I've  news — news ! 

(LAFRENIERE  sinks  down.) 
Nav,  live  awhile  to  hear  me — e'er  you  die — 
Aubry,  Aubry — is  dead — murdered — murdered 
By  a  Spaniard  for  his  gold — the  gold  he  got 
From  Spaniards  to  betray  us — Adieu !    (She  dies.) 
LAF.  Great  God  !     (Rises.) 
FIRST  SPANISH  SOLDIER.  Load,  load  your  guns  again,  and  finish 

him ! 

LAF.  'Tis  useless — I  feel  the  cold  hand  of  death 
Press  from  my  heart  its  last— last  drop  of  blood. 
Louisianians,  by  my  example  learn 
How  great — how  noble — is  a  freeman's  death  !     (Falls  and  dies.) 


PAEKHASIUS;  OK,  THKIFTLESS   AMBITION.* 
A  Dramatic  Poem. 

BY    ESPY    W.    H.    WILLIAMS. 

[ESPY  WILLIAM  HENDRICKS  WILLIAMS  was  born,  January  30,  1852,  in  Carrollton 
(now  Seventh  District  of  New  Orleans),  La.  He  was  educated  at  his  home  until  he 
attained  his  thirteenth  year,  when  he  was  placed  in  a  public  school.  He  was  conversant 
with  the  works  of  the  best  English  dramatists  before  he  was  seventeen.  Since  1869  he 
has  been  actively  engaged  in  the  insurance  business  in  his  native  city.  He  has  contrib- 
uted verses  to  the  leading  magazines  of  the  country.  In  1873  he  wrote  Prince  Carlos, 
a  blank  verse  tragedy,  which  was  subsequently  performed  by  the  "New  Histrionics,"  a 
dramatic  club  of  New  Orleans.  In  his  book,  A  Dream  of  Art,  and  Other  Poems  (1892), 
is  included  his  dramatic  poem  entitled  The  Atheist.  Among  his  unpublished  dramas 
are,  Prince  Carlos,  Eugene  Aram,  The  La#t  Witch,  and  Dante.'] 

Copyright :  all  rights  reserved.     [See  note  below.] 
DEDICATION — TO  NANNIE. 

Dear  heart,  whose  life  must  ever  be 

The  music,  of  my  life, 
Whose  soul  awakes  the  harmony 

Still  wins  my  soul  from  strife — 
To  thee,for  whom  my  all  is  wrought, 
I  give  my  latest  gift  of  thought. 
JUNE  9,  1879. 

THE    STUDIO    OF    PARRHASIUS. 

(PAEKHASIUS  at   work   upon   his  painting   of  "Prometheus   Bound" 
THEON  seated  near.} 

THEON. 

Ambition  ?     Fame  ?     Beware,  beware,  Parrhasius ! 
Who  tempts  the  envy  of  the  gods  courts  ruin. 
Such  fame  as  men  award  their  honored  kind, 
The  fame  of  good  deeds,  charity,  and  love, 

*  [On  this  dramatic  poem  the  author  founded  his  tragedy  of  Parrhasius,  the  stage 
right  of  which  is  the  property  of  the  well-known  actor,  Mr.  Robert  Mantell,  who  has  made 
it 'a  prominent  addition  to  his  repertory.  The  poem  is  included  in  this  volume  with  the 
consent  of  both  the  author  and  Mr.  Mantell.] 


474  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

Brightens  Olympus  with  a  smile,  and,  yes  ! 

Makes  us  in  nature  gods,  though  not  in  name. 

But  such  as  thou  wouldst  strive  for,  such  as  lives 

Alone  the  symbol  of  imperious  self, 

That  shun  !     It  is  the  gods'  prerogative. 

They  have  themselves  forewarned  us  from  it !     Think 

Of  Phaeton  ;  yes  !  and  Prometheus, 

Whose  expiating  tortures  thou  wouldst  paint. 

PAKKHASIUS. 

A  Socrates !  a  very  Socrates ! 
We  now  have  two  in  Athens. 

THEON. 

Scoff  not  so. 

I  am  not  worthy  to  be  liked  to  him 
Whose  greatness  hath  appalled  our  worthiest  great. 
^Not  so,  Parrhasius. 

PABRHASIUS. 
Well,  he  is  the  greater. 

THEON. 

Ay,  greatest !     See  in  him  thy  best  example. 
He  sought  not  greatness,  !>ut  being  greatly  good, 
The  gods,  the  world,  have  thrust  it  nobly  on  him. 
Oh,  such  a  man  is  he,  indeed,  Parrhasius, 
'Tis  shameful,  being  men,  we  are  unlike  him ! 

PARRHASIUS. 

Words,  Theon  !  naught  but  idle,  misspent  words. 

Young  as  I  am,  I  am  too  old  to  learn. 

I  love  not  those  poor,  vain,  self-immolators — 

Philosophers — whose  barren  lives  distil 

But  envious  gall  to  blight  the  lives  of  others. 

Saving  thee,  Theon — thee  I  truly  honor. 

Thy  friendship  is  most  welcome  ;  give  it  still ; 

For,  to  be  friend  of  such  a  man  as  thou 

Is  of  itself  a  praise  too  dear  to  squander. 

THEON. 
A  seeker  still,  a  hoarder  still  of  praise. 


PARRHASIUS;   OR,  THRIFTLESS  AMBITION.  475 

PARRHASIUS. 

But  for  thy  lessons,  give  me  less  of  them, 
And  I  will  give  thee  greater  love. 

THEON  (aside). 

Self-love ! 

PARRHASIUS. 

Even  as  thou  didst  speak,  to  freeze  me  from  it, 

I  felt  my  blood  grow  warm,  my  soul  grow  great, 

O'erteeming  with  my  purpose  !     Even  now 

I  feel  the  inspiration  growing  on  me ; 

Coursing  my  veins,  and  filling  all  my  being 

With  strong,  invigorating,  strange  delight. 

Dost  think  that  now  I  could  forego  my  purpose  ? 

Destroy  my  parchment  ?  free  my  prisoner  ? 

— And,  by  the  gods,  I  do  believe  they  sent  him  ! 

Never  was  so  Prometheus-like  a  face 

And  form  ! — Dost  dream  that  now,  and  at  a  bidding, 

I  could  forswear  a  life-long  cherished  hope  ? 

No  !     Wouldst  thou  do  it  were  the  part  thine  own  ? 

Thou  lov'st  Philosophy — 'tis  thy  life's  life  ! 

Canst  thou  forswear  it  ?  ridicule  it^?  scorn  it  ? 

In  one  quick  moment  root  from  out  thy  heart 

The  garnered  harvesting  of  all  thy  past  ? 

Thou  wouldst  ask  this  of  me !     Do  thou  the  same, 

And  I  with  thee  join  hands  and — die  forgotten. 

You  pause  ?     Reluctance  clouds  your  face  ?     Why,  then, 

Prometheus  and  I  shall  live  forever  ! 

Stay,  and  behold  me  work. 

THEON  (rising). 

And  do  a  murder. 

PARRHASIUS  (laughing). 

Why,  what  is  one  man's  life  to  that  dear  fame 

Which  shall  outlive  the  lives  of  centuries  ? 

If  thou  wilt  stay,  'tis  well ;  if  not,  farewell. 

And  yet,  methinks,  the  sight  were  worth  the  staying ; 

Time  might  grow  gray  nor  gaze  on  such  another. 


476  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

THEON. 

Alas !  your  laughter  yet  may  be  a  wail, 
Your  impious  fame  prove  misery. 

PARKHASIUS  (calling). 

Ho,  Damon ! 
THEON. 

I  will  not  stay  to  hear  or  witness  more  ; 

But  this  remember  :  When  the  time  shall  come 

That  thy  own  life  shall  prove  thy  greatest  curse, 

And  this  one  deed  its  climax,  then  recall 

That  once  thine  own  hand  clasped  the  cup  of  peace ; 

And  when  thy  friend  urged  thee  to  drink,  with  scorn 

And  laughter  thou  didst  dash  it  from  thee. 

DAMON  (entering). 

Master  ? 

THEON  (going). 
Farewell,  Parrhasius. 

PARRHASIUS. 

Friend,  fare  thee  well. 

(He  conducts  THEON  to  the  door.     THEON  goes.     Then  returning,  address- 
ing DAMON.) 

Slave, 

The  captive  whom  I  purchased,  is  he  fed  ? 
Strengthened  with  wine  ? 

DAMON. 

He  has  been  feasted,  master. 
PAKRHASIUS. 

Feasted  is  well ;  I  would  not  have  him  weak. 

For  half  the  misery  of  pain  is  lost 

Upon  your  wasted  frames.     Prometheus 

Was  strong,  and  hence  his  agony  was  great. 

Damon,  the  captive,  spite  his  grizzled  head, 

Is  strong  \     At  least,  the  wine  should  make  him  strong. 


PARRHASIUS;   OR,   THRIFTLESS  AMBITION.  477 

DAMON. 

He  is  strong,  master,  strong  without  the  wine ; 
But  having  wine  his  strength  seems  in  his  tongue. 

PARRHASIUS. 
Tongue  ?  tongue  ?     Talks  he  ? 

DAMON. 

Incessantly,  and  loud ; 
Bewails  his  fate,  and  curses  us  and  thee. 
Tells  how  he  is  himself  a  freeman  born ; 
At  first  betrayed  by  friends,  at  last  by  foes, 
And  brought  now  to  be  sold  a  very  slave 
Like  to  the  very  soil  that  nourished  him. 

PARRHASIUS. 

Talks  ?  talks  ?    'Tis  strange  I  did  not  think  of  that. 

It  will  not  do !     Talks  loud,  about  himself  ? 

Why,  then,  the  dotard  might  unstring  my  nerves ; 

Ay,  lash  me  with  his  tongue  into  a  qualm, 

And  rob  me  both  of  mastery  and  fame. 

Ere  I  should  run  such  venture  I  would — Damon ! 

DAMON. 

Well,  master  ? 

PARRHASIUS  (after  a  pause). 

There  is  one  way,  Damon,  one ; 
Cut  out  his  tongue,  deep,  to  the  very  root. 
Go,  quickly,  Damon ;  for  the  time  draws  nigh 
For  our — yes !  our  Prometheus  to  be  tortured. 
The  vultures,  too,  ha !  ha !  our  vultures,  Damon ! 
Have  them  in  readiness  unto  our  call. 
Mind,  cut  unto  the  root ! 

(DAMON  goes  out.     Knocking  heard  without.} 
Who  knocks  ? 

LYDIA  (without). 

'Tis  I. 

PARRHASIUS  (opening  the  door). 
My  Lydia ! 


478  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

LYDIA  (entering). 
Oh,  my  own  Parrhasius ! 

PAKEHASIUS. 

(Embraces  Tier.    A  paused) 

Well? 

Now,  by  our  sweet  Diana,  thou  art  dumb, 
And  yet  dost  look  a  volume  of  strange  words. 

LYDIA. 
Tell  me,  Parrhasius,  truly,  dost  thou  love  me  ? 

PAKEHASIUS. 

As  I  do  life — nay,  more  ;  as  I  do  fame. 
Dost  doubt  me  ? 

LYDIA. 

Doubt  thee  ?     ISTo  !  and  yet,  Parrhasius — 
That  was  a  foolish  question  that  I  asked ! — 
Yet,  if  thou  lov'st  me,  I  would — 

(She  pauses  as  if  abashed?) 

PAKRHASIUS. 

Speak  thy  wishes. 

Let  them  be  numbered  as  the  drops  of  rain, 
And  each  a  favor  priceless  as  its  balm, 
As  raindrops  live  anew  in  blooming  flowers, 
So  shall  thy  wishes  blossom  to  fulfilment. 

LYDIA. 

Dear !     Listen.     Thou  dost  know  my  life's  poor  story ; 

How  like  a  starless  night,  whose  dews  were  all 

The  deep,  cold  damps  of  sorrow,  it  did  drag 

Through  childhood  motherless  ;  through  youth,  by  force 

Orphaned  of  him  whose  being  gave  my  own — 

Till  thou  didst  rise  upon  it  like  a  sun, 

To  gild  it  with  thy  mighty,  gorgeous  splendor, 

And  warm  it  with  thy  love. 

PAKRHASIUS. 

And  yet  one  grief 
Still  lingered,  Lydia  ;  thou  shouldst  not  forget — 


PARRHASIUS;  OR,  THRIFTLESS  AMBITION.  479 

LYDIA. 

My  father  ?     No !  'tis  he  I  come  to  speak  of. 
We  thought  him  dead,  Parrhasius ;  but  he  lives ! 

PARKHASIUS. 
Lives? 

LYDIA. 

Yes,  lives !  lives,  and  I  have  seen  him.     Oh, 
My  eyes  ne'er  drank  so  dear  a  sight  before ! 

PARRHASIUS. 

Nor  ever  have  my  ears  drank  in  such  music. 
Lives  ? 

LYDIA. 

Yes !  I  passed  a  slave  mart,  all  by  chance, 
And  there,  bound  like  a  dog,  I  saw  him.     Yes ! 
'Tis  no  wild  vision ;  no  false  hope,  Parrhasius. 
Be  patient. 

PARRHASIUS. 
Patient  ?    Bid  me  cease  to  breathe ! 

LYDIA. 

At  first  I  thought  to  fling  myself  before  him, 

Proclaim  him  as  my  father,  even  there, 

And  bid  the  cruel  merchant  bind  me,  too, 

Or  else  free  him,  for  we  should  be  together. 

But  then  there  came  a  fear,  a  chilling  doubt, 

That  his  might  be  a  fancied  likeness  only. 

I  sought  the  merchant,  questioned  him  at  length, 

And  gained  the  proof,  past  doubt,  that  'twas  my  father. 

I  asked  his  price  :  Ten  minae !     That  was  all 

I  stayed  to  hear.     I  thought  of  thee  ;  flew  hither, 

And  found  thee  not,  Parrhasius  !    Oh,  the  time 

Waiting  thy  coming  was  so  slow  to  pass, 

Each  fleeting  second  seemed  a  century ! 

Parrhasius,  dear  Parrhasius !     Oh,  my  love, 

Each  moment  makes  his  cruel  bondage  longer  ! 

Oh,  let  me  fly  to  him,  ransom  in  hand, 

And  clasp  him  to  my  heart,  my  father ! 


480  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

PAKKHASIUS  (fondly). 

Precious ! — 

What  treasures  the  gods  give  us  in  our  children ; 
Eternal  benedictions  on  our  lives  ! 
Here,  take  the  sum ;  were  it  an  hundred-fold, 
Thou  couldst  not  ask  it  twice.     'Twas  thine  unasked. 
All  that  I  am  or  would  be  is  but  thine. 

LYDIA. 

As  all  I  am  is  thine,  Parrhasius. 

PARKHASIUS. 

Go! 

Lose  not  a  moment !     Would  I  could  go  with  thee ; 
But  I  must  work,  my  Lydia — work  for  thee ! 
Now  while  the  spirit  spurs  me  in  my  breast, 
And  fills  me  with  forethoughts  of  victory. 

LYDIA. 
Thy  great  Prometheus  ? 

PAKRHASIUS. 

My  mighty  work ! 

My  masterpiece — the  world's  great  wonder  !     So, 
One,  one  more  kiss !     Now,  to  thy  father  go ! 

(He  conducts  her  to  the  door  fondly.     She  goes  out.) 
Surely  she  is  a  goddess  in  disguise ! 
She  is  more  beautiful  than  all  her  kind ; 
More  purely  virtuous  than  she  is  fair. 

(Then  closing  and  fastening  the  door.) 
But  now  to  work. 

— Work  !  work !     There  is  a  spell 
In  that  one  word,  more  potent,  fame-compelling, 
More  winning  of  the  halcyon  joys  of  heaven, 
Than  the  Chaldean's  loud,  earth-rending  charms, 
Or  incense  incantations  e'er  can  boast ! 
'Twas  work  that  made  a  god  of  Hercules  ! 
(Calls.)     Damon ! 

DAMON  (entering). 
Well,  master? 


PARRHASIUS;   OR,   THRIFTLESS  AMBITION.  481 

PARRHASIUS. 

Is  it  done  ? 
DAMON. 

It  is. 
He  cannot  speak,  but  now  he  looks  his  thoughts. 

PARRHASIUS. 

So  would  I  have  him,  Damon,  if  his  thoughts 
Are  terrible  with  speechless  hate  and  pain. 
The  torturers — our  vultures — are  they  ready  ? 

DAMON. 
They  wait  thy  orders. 

PARRHASITTS. 

Let  them  enter. 

(DAMON  goes  out  and  returns  with  two  Ethiopian  slaves.     PARRHASIUS 

continues.) 

Slaves, 

Ye  are  my  bondmen,  flesh  and  blood,  my  dogs ; 
But  your  redemption  is  at  hand.     Perform 
Your  task  of  torture,  horribly  and  sure, 
And  the  last  breath  your  quivering  victim  draws 
Shall  bid  ye  breathe  in  freedom.     Only  this : 
Prolong  his  agony  till  I  cry,  Done ! 
If  ye  should  fail  in  that,  your  death  be  dogs' ! 
Let  him  be  brought. 

(DAMON  and  the  slaves  go  out.  Presently  they  return,  bringing  in  the 
captive,  bound  to  a  rack  which  is  carried  like  a  litter.  DAMON  is 
pale  and  trembles. 

PARRHASIUS. 

There,  Damon,  place  him  there, 

"Where  the  bright  light  shall  fall  the  strongest  on  him, 
So.     Why,  thou'rt  pale  and  trembling,  Damon !     Go ! 

(DAMON  goes  out  quickly.) 

If  I  can  free  these  Ethiopian  dogs, 
I  should  free  Damon  too,  and  so  I  shall. 
His  part  is  full  as  hard,  he  more  deserving. 
(He  approaches  and  gazes  upon  the  captive  for  a  few  moments  vn 

silence  ;  then  continues.) 
31 


482  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

There  is  a  powerless  fury  in  that  gaze ; 
Rebellious  resignation  in  that  pose. 
'Tis  great ! 

Old  man,  though  thou  shalt  die  this  life, 
Live  but  a  little  thus,  and  thou  shalt  live 
To  know  no  death,  forever  on  my  parchment ! 
Think,  what  a  glorious  fame,  in  aftertime 
To  thrill  the  souls  of  mute  admiring  men 
With  the  appalling  thought,  that  that  man  lived  ! 
He  was  no  dream  !  he  was  a  real  Prometheus ! 

— Look  at  his  scorn !  by  all  the  gods,  sublime ! 
Slaves,  quick,  begin !     Ha !  that  is  well !     Spare  not. 
Only,  beware,  let  him  not  die  too  soon. 

(The  Ethiopians  torture  the  captive.     During  the  torturing  Parrhasius 
paints  rapidly r,  talking  from  time  to  time  while  he  works.} 

—Would  that  my  pencil  had  the  lightning's  touch, 

Quick  and  indelible,  to  catch  and  fix 

That  flash  of  agony ! 

It  came  and  went  having  no  space  of  time 

Betwixt  its  birth  and  dying. 

— He  smiles,  even  in  pain,  like  one  who  smiles, 
Unconscious,  in  the  midst  of  horrid  dreams, 
And  knows  not  of  his  own  lip's  mockery. 

—He  writhes !  they  touch  his  vitals !  see !     He  faints  ? 
Let  him  not  die  !     Wine,  give  him  wine,  you  dogs ! 
So,  so.     Wait  now  till  he  is  conscious. 

— There  is  no  meaning  in  a  dead  man's  grin, 

Save  that  it  is  an  epitaph  of  pain. 

Prometheus  was  not  dead,  his  pain  was  living, 

Was  an  eternal  life ;  that  was  its  curse ! 

Yes,  by  the  gods,  it  is  his  punishment, 

And  not  his  sin,  hath  made  Prometheus  famous. 

— Once  more,  my  vultures,  once  again  your  parts. 

— See  !  see  !     Each  particle  of  flesh  seems  living  ; 

And  with  a  separate  life  would  strive  to  burst 

From  his  torn  carcass,  and  so  fly  its  misery  ! 

Oh,  only  could  a  god,  an  angered  Jove, 

Dream  or  enforce  so  dread  a  torture  ! 

— Again,  wine  !  wine,  ye  dogs  ! 

Prop  up  his  head.     So.     What  a  look  was  that ! 


PARRHASIUS;   OR,  THRIFTLESS  AMBITION.  483 

"Were  those  eyes  charged  with  lightning,  they  would  blast  me. 
He  sickens  with  the  thought  that  they  are  powerless. 

(He  laughs.) 
— Again,  once  more,  my  vultures. 

— What  a  sigh  ! 

It  is  as  if  the  earth-bound  spirit  struggled 
A  captive  to  the  flesh,  and  would  be  free  ; 
And  in  that  moan  there  was  a  prayer  for  death 
So  great,  it  might  have  startled  Atropos, 
Pitying,  to  cut  his  ravelled  skein  too  soon. 
— Can  he  be  dying  now  ?  so  soon  ?     No  !  no  ! 
More  wine  !  feed  him  with  life  !  he  must  not  die ! 
Spare  him  only  a  little  yet,  great  Jove  ! 
— Only  a  little  yet,  and  all  is  done  ; 
And  thou  shalt  be  at  rest,  old  man,  in  death. 
Truly,  I  pity  thee  !     Thou  art  so  strong, 
So  godlike  in  thy  harmony  of  strength, 
That  thus  to  tear  thee  from  the  eyes  of  men 
Indeed  were  cruel— but  that  thou  shouldst  live, 
New-born,  in  my  Prometheus. 

— Slaves,  you  tremble  ? 

Beware,  your  wage  is  freedom,  or  'tis  death  ! 
Quail  not,  nor  let  him  die  ere  I  have  done ; 
For  then  ye  should  yourselves  make  good  your  failure, 
Even  upon  his  rack,  and  torn  as  he ! 
— Ha  !  so  !     That  look,  that  throe  !     Sublime  !  sublime  ! 
Again,  force  him  to  that  again,  and  if 
I  can  but  fix  it !     Ha  !  there  !     Good  !  good  !  good  ! 
All  Hades  centres  in  that  glance  !     He  gasps  ? 
So,  it  is  done  !     Ha  !  ha  !     He  dies  !  he  dies 
Well,  well,  'tis  not  too  soon  !     Go,  freedmen,  go  ! 

(The  Ethiopians  rush  out.     PARRHASIUS  sinks  into  a  seat,  exhausted, 
laughing  hysterically,  and  gazing  triumphantly  at  his  work.) 

Dead  !  dead  !     But  there  he  lives  eternally  ! 

LYDIA. 

(  Without,  knocking  at  the  door.) 
Parrhasius ! 

PARRHASIUS. 
Ah! 


484  POETR  Y— DRAMA  TIC. 

LYDIA  (without). 
Parrhasius ! 

PARKHASIUS. 

It  is  Lydia. 
She  should  not  enter  here — the  body  here  ! 

LYDIA. 

Keep  me  not  longer  from  thee  !     This  delay 
Confirms  me  in  my  sweet  surmising.     Oh, 
Thou  jewel  of  all  men,  my  own  Parrhasius  ! 

PARRHASIUS  (rising). 

By  Yenus,  she  shall  enter  !     So,  this  curtain, 
Thou  poor  old  man,  shall  be  thy  gorgeous  pall. 

(Then  standing  over  the  body) 
His  face  is  calm ;  he  smiles  as  dreaming  sweetly ;  • 
No  sign  of  pain,  not  even  the  cold  dew 
That  beaded  all  his  brow  in  agony. 
Yet  it  was  terrible  !     Damon  was  pale 
"With  but  the  thought  of  it ;  and  the  poor  blacks 
Shivered  unto  their  bones,  and  fled  in  fright 
And  left  him  here,  forgetting  their  last  duty. 

LYDIA  (knocking]. 
Parrhasius,  why,  why  do  you  keep  me  waiting  ? 

PARRHASIUS. 

Am  I  forgetful  too  ?     Yes,  Lydia. 

(He  covers  the  body  ;  then  opens  the  door.) 

LYDIA. 

(Entering  and  embracing  him.) 
Dearest! 
Oh,  I  could  hang  forever  on  thy  neck — 

PARRHASIUS. 

And  there  would  shine  a  circlet  all  of  love, 
Priceless  beyond  all  price.     But,  love,  thy  father  ? 

LYDIA. 
Parrhasius,  do  you  ask  me  ?     Eansomed,  surely. 


PARRHASIUS;   OR,  THRIFTLESS  AMBITION.  485 

PARRHASIUS. 

Then  I  am  trebly  happy !     Most  in  thee, 
Whose  delicate  nature  hath  inwrought  my  life 
With  a  bright  tale,  of  woes  o'ercome  by  joys, 
In  that  strange,  marvellous  broidery,  called  Love. 
Next  in  thy  father,  who  in  having  thee 
Blest  me,  and  lives  now  to  be  blest  by  me. 
And,  lastly,  in  my  great  Prometheus. 
But,  love,  where  is  thy  father  ? 

LYDIA. 

Guess  you  not  ? 

Oh,  speak,  Parrhasius ;  it  is  thou  must  answer ! 
I  have  been  patient  till  I  almost  die. 

PARRHASIUS. 
You  have  been  patient  ?    Why,  love  ? 

LYDIA. 

O  Parrhasius  \ 
Must  I  then  weep,  and  yet  you  will  not  melt  ? 

PARRHASIUS. 

Tears  ?  tears  ?     This  is  too  much !     What  is  it,  love  ? 
The  dew  gems  of  thine  eyes  are  far  too  precious 
To  scatter  thus,  and  without  reason.     Nay, 
Look  up !     What  is  it  thou  canst  wish  ? 

LYDIA. 

My  father. 

PARRHASIUS. 

Thy  father  !     What !  have  you  not  seen  him,  then  ? 
Not  ransomed  him  3 

LYDIA. 
He  was  already  ransomed. 

PARRHASIUS. 

Already  ransomed  ?    Did  you  not  bespeak  him  ? 
He  was  already  ransomed,  love,  by  thee, 


486  POETRY— DRAMATIC. 

Wanting  alone  the  silver  counted  down. 
The  merchant  would  not  break  his  word.     You  smile  ? 
Ah !  some  old  friend,  passing  perchance  like  thee, 
Discovered  him,  and,  for  old  friendship's  sake, 
Freed  him  at  once  from  bondage  ?     Is't  not  so  \ 

LYDIA. 
Yes,  a  true  friend,  an  unknown  friend,  has  freed  him. 

PAERHASIUS. 
An  unknown  friend  ? 

LYDIA. 

Unknown  to  him ;  to  me 

Known,  oh,  so  truly,  dearly  !     Dear  Parrhasius, 
That  friend,  by  some  strange  chance  winning  my  secret, 
Ere  I  had  thought  that  it  had  left  my  keeping, 
Ransomed  my  father,  that  to  him,  alone, 
I  still  might  owe  my  greatest,  dearest  blessings. 

PARRHASIUS. 
Thou  must  repay  the  ransom  twice — ay,  thrice ! 

LYDIA. 

Nay  !  I  will  pay  it  o'er  a  thousand-fold, 
In  coin  more  precious  than  the  purest  gold, 
Yet  count  the  reimbursement  scant.     Thou,  thou, 
My  own  Parrhasius,  thou  didst  ransom  him  ! 
And  I  can  only  pay  thee  back  with  love,  with  life. 

(PARRHASIUS  starts,  aghast,  as  if  by  some  terrible  thought.') 

Where  is  my  father  ?     Speak !     Too  long,  too  long- 
Have  I  forborne  thy  playing  with  my  patience ! 
The  merchant's  tale  was  plain.     Scarce  had  I  left  him, 
When  thou  didst  pass,  and — yes,  it  must  be  thus ! 
Some  one  who  had  o'erheard  my  talk  betrayed  me — 
And  with  no  question  thou  didst  pay  the  sum 
And  take  my  father  with  thee.     Even,  Parrhasius, 
The  very  time  that  I  did  seek  his  ransom, 
He  was  beneath  thy  roof,  free — freed  by  thee  ! 
And,  unkind  husband,  yet  indeed  how  kind, 
You  let  me  forth  upon  a  fruitless  search. 


PARRHASIUS;   OR,   THRIFTLESS  AMBITION.  487 

Yet  I  forgive ;  for  surely  'twas  thy  purpose 
Thus  to  give  keener  relish  to  my  joy. 

PAKRHASIUS  (aside). 
Prometheus !    O  Prometheus ! 

LYDIA  (impatiently). 

Speak,  Parrhasius ! 
Where  is  my  father  ? 

PAKKHASIUS  (as  before). 

Jove,  where  are  thy  thunders  \ 

LYDIA. 

Parrhasius  ?     This — this  is  not  well,  Parrhasius. 
Thy  silence  chills  me  with  a  dreadful  fear, 
Of  what  I  know  not — yet  it  crazes  me ! 
Speak!   Ha? 

(She  sees  the  painting,  and  with  a  scream  advances  towards  it,  eying 
it  searchingly.) 

That  face  ? — that  seems  my  father's  face  ! 
Oh,  speak,  Parrhasius  !     Heard  I  not  a  groan, 
Oh,  very  faint,  and  yet  so  full  of  pain, 
Just  ere  I  paused  without  the  door  ?     Silent  ? 
Still  silent  ?— Then  I  did !— Was  it  my  father's  ? 
If  you  do  love  me,  pity  me  and  speak. 
—Silent  ?     That  face !  that  agony  !     O  gods ! 
But  I  will  find  him  !     Murderer,  where  is  he  ? 

(She  starts  frantically,  about  to  leave  the  room,  and  sees  the  corpse. 
She  stops  suddenly,  for  a  moment  appalled,  then  rushes  to  it  and 
lifts  the  covering.) 

This,  this,  this  !     O  ye  gods,  have  ye  no  vengeance  ? 
(She  falls  fainting  on  the  body.) 

-  PAREHASIUS  (rushing  to  her  and  raising  her  in  his  arms). 

Call  down  no  greater  vengeance — this  has  crushed  me. 
She  does  not  breathe  ;  have  I  done  double  murder  ? 

THEON  (without,  knocking). 
Parrhasius. 


488  POETR  Y—DRA  MA  TIC. 

PARKHASIUS  (not  hearing). 

Oh,  thou  blighted,  frozen  lily  ! 
If  thou  art  dead,  I  cannot  blame  the  gods, 
For  I — I  am  unfit  to  keep  thee. 

THEON  (as  before). 
Friend ! 

PARRHASIUS  (still  unheeding). 

Open  thine  eyes,  though  they  should  scorn  me ! 
I  would  kiss  thee,  but  that  my  kiss  might  kill  thee, 
And  send  thy  spirit,  shrinking  from  my  breath, 
Poisoned,  to  the  remorseless  shades  of  Hades. 
Thou  wert  my  all ;  I  loved  thee  more  than  fame, 
And  yet  for  fame  have  murdered  thee  !     O  Lydia  ! 

THEON  (as  before). 
Parrhasius. 

PARKHASIUS  (hearing}. 
Theon  ?     (Then  after  a  pause?)     Enter,  friend. 

THEON  (entering r,  seeing  and  comprehending). 

Woe !     Woe ! 
Oh,  my  Parrhasius  !  where  is  now  thy  glory  ? 

PARRHASIUS. 

Behold  ! — thy  prophecy. 

Thus  do  the  gods 

Inflict  our  punishments  with  our  own  hands, 
And  scourge  us  mortally  with  our  own  errors ! 
— O  Lydia,  Lydia! 


PART  Y. 
POETRY. 

SECTION  II.    MISCELLANEOUS. 


MY   LIFE  IS  LIKE   THE   SUMMEK  ROSE. 

BY    RICHARD    HENRY    WILDE. 

MY  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 
Is  scattered  on  the  ground  to  die. 
But  on  that  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  Heaven  wept  such  waste  to  see — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me. 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray ; 
Its  hold  is  frail — its  state  is  brief — 

Restless  and  soon  to  pass  away. 
Yet  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  shall  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me. 

My  life  is  like  the  print  of  feet 

Left  upon  Tampa's  desert  strand ; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 

The  tracks  will  vanish  from  the  sand. 
Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 
On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea — 
But  none  shall  e'er  lament  for  me. 


THE   POET'S   LAMENT. 

BY    RICHARD    HENRY    WILDE. 

As  evening's  dews  to  sun-parched  summer  flowers, 
So  to  young  burning  breasts  has  verse  been  given, 

To  soothe  and  cool  the  flush  of  feverish  hours, 
Even  with  the  tears  exhaled  from  earth  to  heaven. 

But  when  life's  ebbing  pulse  wanes  faint  and  slow, 
And  coming  winter  clouds  the  short'ning  day, 

No  dews  the  night,  no  tears  the  eyes  bestow, 
No  words  the  soul  to  mourn  its  own  decay. 

But  frosts  instead,  the  waste  of  years  deform, 
And  on  our  head  falls  fast  untimely  snow, 

Or  worse — we  prove  volcanic  passions'  storm, 
Whose  earthquake  calmness  mocks  the  fires  below. 

These  have  no  voice — yet  might  their  ruins  speak 
The  past  and  present  eloquently  well — 

But,  fiendlike,  on  themselves  their  rage  they  wreak, 
Although  they  dare  not  wake  the  silent  spell. 

For  such,  alas !  all  Poetry  is  past, 

Not  even  in  History  their  thoughts  survive, 

Like  crowded  cities  into  lava  cast 

Oblivion-doomed,  embalmed,  while  still  alive. 

Above  the  stifled  heart  a  nation's  grave, 

Years,  centuries,  millenniums  even  might  pass, 

And  o'er  their  barren  dust  no  laurels  wave — 
Forth  from  their  ashes  springs  no  blade  of  grass. 

Ores  in  the  darkest  caverns  of  the  earth, 

Pearls  in  the  sea's  unfathomed  depths  may  shine — 

Gems  in  the  mountain's  living  rock  have  birth — 
But  never  Poetry  in  souls  like  mine. 


TO   THE  MOCKING-BIKD. 

BY    RICHARD    HENRY    WILDE. 

WINGED  mimic  of  the  woods !  thou  motley  fool ! 

Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  describe  ? 
Thine  ever-ready  notes  of  ridicule 

Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and  gibe. 

Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy  tribe, 
Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school ; 

To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe, 
Arch-mocker  and  mad  Abbot  of  Misrule ! 
For  such  thou  art  by  day — but  all  night  long 

Thou  pour'st  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 
As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 

Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacques  complain, 
Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong, 

And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 


ADIEU   TO   INNISFAIL. 

BY    RICHARD    D' ALTON    WILLIAMS. 

[RICHARD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  Octobers,  1822.  His  earlv 
poems  were  published  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Shamrock."  In  1848  he  founded 
and  edited,  in  conjunction  with  K.  I.  O'Doherty,  the  Irish  Tribune;  but  only  a  few 
numbers  of  that  journal  were  issued  before  the  British  Government  charged  the  editors, 
in  their  capacity  as  such,  with  treason  against  Queen  Victoria.  Williams  was  defended, 
in  the  trial  which  followed,  by  the  celebrated  Samuel  Ferguson,  who,  in  the  course  of 
his  remarks  to  the  jury,  said  :  "  When  I  speak  of  the  services  Mr.  Williams  has  ren- 
dered religion  by  his  poetry,  allow  me  also  to  say  that  he  has  also  rendered  services  to 
the  cause  of  patriotism  and  humanity  by  it;  and  permit  me  to  use  the  privileges  of  a 
long  apprenticeship  in  those  pursuits  by  saying,  that,  in  my  own  humble  judgment,  after 
our  own  poet  Moore,  the  first  living  poet  of  Ireland  is  the  gentleman  who  now  stands 
arraigned  at  the  bar."  The  trial  resulted  for  Williams  in  a  verdict  of  "  Not  guilty." 
In  1851  he  emigrated  to  the  United  States.  He  took  up  his  abode  in  Alabama,  and  for 
some  time  was  Professor  of  Belles-Lettres  in  Spring  Hill  College.  Later  he  married  a 
Miss  Connolly,  of  New  Orleans,  and  moved  to  Thibadeaux,  La.,  where  he  lived  until 
the  first  part  of  the  Civil  War,  practising  medicine  and  writing  for  the  local  press.  He 
was  in  sympathy  with  the  Confederates,  but  did  not  join  the  army.  His  death  occurred 
July  5,  1862.] 

ADIEU  !  the  snowy  sail 
Swells  her  bosom  to  the  gale, 
And  our  bark  from  Innisfail 

Bounds  away. 

While  we  gaze  upon  the  shore 
That  we  never  shall  see  more, 
And  the  blinding  tears  flow  o'er 

We  pray — 

Mavourneen,  be  thou  long 
In  peace  the  queen  of  song — 
In  battle  proud  and  strong 

As  the  sea. 

Be  saints  thine  offspring  still, 
True  heroes  guard  each  hill, 
And  harps  by  every  rill 

Sound  free. 

Though  round  her  Indian  bowers 
The  hand  of  nature  showers 
The  brightest,  blooming  flowers 
Of  our  sphere ; 


ADIEU  TO  INNISFAIL.  495 

Yet  not  the  richest  rose 
In  an  alien  clime  that  blows 
Like  the  briar  at  home  that  grows 
Is  dear. 

Though  glowing  hearts  may  be 
In  soft  vales  beyond  the  sea, 
Yet  ever,  gramachree  ! 

Shall  I  wail 

For  the  hearts  of  love  I  leave, 
In  the  dreary  hours  of  eve, 
On  thy  stormy  shores  to  grieve, 

Innisfail ! 

But  mem'ry  o'er  the  deep 

On  her  dewy  wing  shall  sweep 

When  in  midnight  hours  I  weep 

O'er  thy  wrongs ; 
And  bring  me  steeped  in  tears 
The  dead  flowers  of  other  years, 
And  waft  unto  my  ears 

Home's  songs. 

"When  I  slumber  in  the  gloom 
Of  a  nameless,  foreign  tomb, 
By  a  distant  ocean's  boom, 

Innisfail ! 

Around  thy  em'rald  shore 
May  the  clasping  sea  adore, 
And  each  wave  in  thunder  roar, 

"All  hail!" 

And  when  the  final  sigh 
Shall  bear  my  soul  on  high, 
And  on  chainless  wings  I  fly 

Through  the  blue ; 
Earth's  latest  thought  shall  be, 
As  I  soar  above  the  sea, 
"  Green  Erin,  dear,  to  thee 

Adieu!" 


SISTEE   OF  CHAKITY. 

BY   RICHARD   D' ALTON   WILLIAMS. 

SISTER  of  Charity,  gentle  and  dutiful, 

Loving  as  Seraphim,  tender  and  mild, 
In  humbleness  strong  and  in  purity  beautiful, 

In  spirit  heroic,  in  manners  a  child  ; 
Ever  thy  love,  like  an  angel,  reposes 

With  hovering  wings  o'er  the  sufferer  here, 
Till  the  arrows  of  death  are  half  hidden  in  roses, 

And  hope,  speaking  prophecy,  smiles  on  the  bier. 
When  life  like  a  vapor  is  slowly  retiring, 

As  clouds  in  the  dawning  to  heaven  uprolled, 
Thy  prayer,  like  a  herald,  precedes  him,  expiring, 

And  the  cross  on  thy'  bosom  his  last  looks  behold. 
And,  oh !  as  the  Spouse  to  thy  words  of  love  listens, 

What  hundred-fold  blessings  descend  on  thee  then ! 
Thus  the  flower-absorbed  dew  in  the  bright  iris  glistens, 

And  returns  to  the  lilies  more  richly  again. 

Sister  of  Charity !  child  of  the  Holiest ! 

Oh,  for  thy  loving  soul,  ardent  as  pure  ! 
Mother  of  orphans  and  friend  of  the  lowliest, 

Stay  of  the  wretched,  the  guilty,  the  poor ! 
The  embrace  of  Godhead  so  plainly  enfolds  thee, 

Sanctity's  halo  so  shrines  thee  around, 
Daring  the  eye  that  unshrinking  beholds  thee, 

Nor  droops  in  thy  presence  abashed  to  the  ground. 
Dim  is  the  fire  of  the  sunniest  blushes 

Burning  the  breast  of  the  maidenly  rose, 
To  the  exquisite  bloom  that  thy  pale  beauty  flushes 

When  the  incense  ascends  and  the  sanctuary  glows ; 
And  the  music  that  seems  heaven's  language  is  pealing, 

Adoration  has  bowed  him  in  silence  and  sighs, 
And  man,  intermingled  with  angels,  is  feeling 

The  passionless  rapture  that  comes  from  the  skies. 


SISTER   OF  CHARITY.  497 

Oh,  that  this  heart,  whose  unspeakable  treasure 

Of  love  hath  been  wasted  so  vainly  on  clay, 
Like  thine,  unallured  by  the  phantom  of  pleasure, 

Cotdd  rend  every  earthly  affection  away  ! 

And  yet  in  thy  presence  the  billows,  subsiding, 

Obey  the  strong  effort  of  reason  and  will ; 
And  ray  soul,  in  her  pristine  tranquillity  gliding, 

Is  calm  as  when  God  bade  the  ocean  be  still ! 
Thy  soothing,  how  gentle !     Thy  pity,  how  tender ! 

Choir  music  thy  voice  is,  thy  step  angel-grace, 
And  thy  union  with  Deity  shrines  in  a  splendor — 

Subdued,  but  unearthly,  thy  spiritual  face. 
"When  the  frail  chains  are  broken,  a  captive  that  bound  thee 

Afar  from  thy  home  in  the  prison  of  clay, 
Bride  of  the  Lamb !  and  Earth's  shadows  around  thee 

Disperse  in  the  blaze  of  eternity's  day ; 
Still  mindful,  as  now,  of  the  sufferer's  story, 

Arresting  the  thunders  of  wrath  ere  they  roll, 
Intervene,  as  a  cloud,  between  us  and  His  glory, 

And  shield  from  His  lightnings  the  shuddering  soul ; 
And  mild  as  the  moonbeams  in  autumn  descending, 

That  lightning,  extinguished  by  mercy,  shall  fall, 
While  He  hears,  with  the  wail  of  the  penitent  blending, 

Thy  prayer,  holy  daughter  of  Vincent  de  Paul. 


THE   FIKST  AND    SECOND   BIKTH. 

BY    JAMES    T.    SMITH. 

[BoRN  in  1816  in  St.  Mary's  Parish,  La.,  James  Tinker  Smith  was  bereft  of  his 
parents  at  a  tender  age,  and  soon  after  was  sent  by  his  guardian  to  relatives  in  Scotland. 
In  due  time  he  studied  at  the  Edinburgh  University,  where  he  had  as  friends  Gregory  and 
the  great  "Christopher  North."  He  received  his  diploma  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  from 
the  Koyal  College  of  Surgeons,  Edinburgh.  He  then  returned  to  his  native  State  and 
parish,  and  assumed  charge  of  the  immense  estates  which  his  parents  had  left  him.  A 
first-rate  French  scholar,  he  translated  into  English  the  Meditations  of  Lamartine,  and 
included  them  in  a  book,  published  in  1852,  with  many  fugitive  poems  of  his  own.  He 
died  at  Franklin,  La.,  August  10,  1854.] 

THERE  lay  an  atom  in  a  darksome  tomb, 

And  there  it  grew  till  in  periods  nine 
It  came  from  its  hiding-place  of  gloom — 

A  lovely  babe  with  a  face  divine  ; 
And  it  cried  when  it  came  from  its  lurking-place, 
For  it  feared  to  look  on  its  father's  face. 

But  when  it  gazed  all  the  couch  around, 

And  saw  the  kind  faces  that  greeted  it  there, 

Its  father,  its  mother,  its  brother  it  found, 

The  grandmother,  too,  with  her  silvery  hair — 

It  laughed  ;  and  its  mqther,  to  hear  its  voice, 

That  a  man  had  been  born  did  rejoice,  rejoice. 

And  the  babe  it  grew,  and  grew  to  a  man, 

And  it  looked  on  the  garniture  spread  for  the  earth  ; 

The  forests,  the  rivers,  the  mountains,  he'd  scan ; 
And  he  said,  Yes,  I  feared  on  the  day  of  my  birth, 

But  now  I  rejoice  I  was  brought  from  the  womb, 

That  terrible  place  of  the  darkness  and  gloom. 

Yet  he  knew  not  then  that  his  soul  had  been  made 

To  find  yet  a  higher  and  higher  doom, 
'Till  the  vision  at  night  came  unto  him  and  said, 

This  world,  O  man,  is  thy  second  womb, 
And  thou  must  be  born  to  another  place 
*  Before  thou  canst  look  on  thy  Father's  face. 


THE  FIRST  AND  SECOND  BIRTH.  499 

For  this  world  is  placed  'twixt  the  day  and  the  night, 
That  the  eye'  of  the  man  might  not  be  destroyed ; 

By  the  sun  of  that  sword  he  shall  see  flame  in  light, 
When  he's  born  again  from  this  second  void, 

And  then  shall  he  see  the  eternal  sight, 

For  there  ever  is  day,  and  there  never  is  night. 

Then  shalt  thou  fear  too  at  thy  second  birth ; 

But  when  thou  hast  wakened  and  gazed  all  around, 
And  see  all  who  had  formerly  loved  thee  on  earth, 

'Round  thy  couch  stand  and  cry,  Oh,  the  lost  one  is  found ! 
Thou  shalt  laugh ;  and  thy  Father,  to  hear  thy  voice, 
That  a  god  hath  been  born  shall  rejoice,  rejoice ; 
And  when  all  the  delights  of  that  heaven  are  unfurled, 
Thou'lt  rejoice  to  have  been  born  from  this  darksome  world. 


THE  MOTHEE'S   SONG. 

BY    JAMES    T.    SMITH. 

WHAT  is  sweeter  than  the  song, 

When  the  lark  to  heaven  doth  soar  ? 
What  is  sweeter  than  night's  rest, 

When  the  work  of  day  is  o'er  ? 
What  sweeter  than  the  sound 

Of  the  small  waves  on  the  shore  ? 
'Tis  the  sound  of  little  feet, 

As  they  patter  on  the  floor. 

What  is  softer  than  the  down 

Which  the  pretty  ducklings  seek, 
As  they  crowd  the  parent  round 

In  the  pool  or  in  the  creek  ? 
What  is  sweeter  than  the  words 

Which  the  dearest  friends  may  speak  ? 
It  is  little  baby's  kiss, 

When  he  kisses  mother's  cheek. 

What  is  lovelier  than  the  rose, 

As  it  blushes  on  the  stalk  ? 
What  is  sweeter  in  the  garden, 

Than  the  merry  mocker's  mock  ? 
It  is  to  hear  the  prattle 

Of  the  little  baby's  talk, 
And  to  see  the  tiny  footprints 

When  he  toddles  o'er  the  walk. 

There  is  music  in  the  voice 

Of  the  bird  upon  the  tree, 
There  is  music  in  the  wings 

Of  the  little  summer  bee ; 
But  not  a  chord  in  nature's  harp, 

Though  sweetly  strung  it  be, 
Has  half  the  music  in  it 

Of  my  baby's  laugh  to  me. 


THE  MOTHERS  SONG.  501 

O  Father  of  the  innocent, 

Look  from  thy  throne  on  high, 
And  shield  my  little  baby 

With  the  power  of  thine  eye ! 
For  often  in  the  dreary  night 

I  lay  me  down  and  cry, 
To  think  how  desolate  I'd  be 

Should  little  baby  die. 


MARY   QUEEN    OF   SCOTS'   FAREWELL. 

("  Adieu,  plaisant  pays  de  France.") 
BY    WILLIAM    PRESTON   JOHNSTON. 

FAREWELL,  beloved  France ! 

I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more ; 
I  cast  my  last  fond  glance 

On  thy  receding  shore. 
Fast  fall  the  salt,  salt  tears, 

That  dim  my  aching  eyes, 
And  spectral  forms  and  fears 

Dark  o'er  my  pathway  rise. 

Before  me  soon  the  steeps 

Of  England's  cliffs  will  loom, 
And  seem  to  her  who  weeps 

The  portals  of  a  tomb ; 
And  Scotland's  rugged  crags 

Will  vex  my  hapless  sight, 
While  this  winged  dungeon  drags 

Mary  from  lost  delight. 

No  more  thy  joys,  dear  France, 

The  idle  hours  beguile ; 
No  more  the  pleasant  dance 

Provokes  the  wreathed  smile  ; 
Now  gone  are  sportive  words, 

The  laugh,  the  tale,  the  song, 
Sunshine  and  flowers  and  birds, 

And  pleasure's  shining  throng. 

Whate'er  filled  eye  and  ear, 

Whate'er  cheered  heart  and  mind, 

Whate'er  seemed  most,  most  dear, 
Wretched  I  leave  behind ; 


MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS'  FAREWELL.  503 

O  life  so  sweet,  so  gay, 

With  bliss  so  brimming  o'er ! 
O  rapture  passed  away, 

Never  to  bless  me  more ! 

Gone  now  the  airy  jest, 

The  shapely,  graceful  mien 
Of  nobles  who  addressed 

Each  woman  as  a  queen ; 
Instead,  stern  Murray's  form, 

Dark,  rigid,  clad  in  mail, 
And  lowering  as  the  storm, 

Stalks  by  with  aspect  pale. 

Instead  of  bending  priest, 

With  whisper  soft  and  low, 
Absolving  me,  released 

Henceforth  from  sin  and  woe, 
Knox,  with  his  strident  voice 

And  awful  threatening  arm, 
Points  to  the  dreadful  choice 

Of  heresy  or  harm. 

Born  of  a  kingly  line, 

Brave,  beautiful,  and  strong, 
What  baleful  planets  shine, 

What  great  misfortunes  throng, 
To  mar  the  princely  grace, 

To  dim  the  splendid  sheen, 
Of  Scotland's  royal  race, 

Of  Scotland's  stricken  queen  ! 

Upon  the  deck  I  stand, 

And  through  the  twilight  strain 
To  see  again  thy  strand 

Across  the  billowy  main ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  expanse, 

Mist  shrouds  thee  from  my  view, 
O  home !    O  hope !    O  France ! 

My  France  !    a  last  adieu  ! 


EDGAE   ALLAN    POE. 
BY  JOHN  DIMITBY. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE, 
Poet  and  Prose-Writer : 

He  struck  with  mocking  hand  the  Frailty  that  is  Man, 

While  he  left  unprofaned 

The  Truth  that  is  God. 

He  wooed  Science  to  be  an  Ally  of  Fiction, 

And,  in  the  wooing,  made  her  shine  with  a  Light 

Simpler  than  her  own. 

In  his  Poetry,  he  touched  but  few  Notes : 

Yet  these,  now  the  tenderest,  now  the  saddest, 

That  translate  Human  Passions 

Into  melodious  words, 

And  so  fix  them  forever. 

In  his  Prose,  Master  of  all  the  Feelings, 

He  wielded,  with  equal  skill, 

The  Wand  of  Humor  and  the  Brand  of  Terror : 

At  his  will,  thrilling  men  to  Horror,  or  moving  them 

To  Laughter. 

In  his  Tales — 

Whether  they  be  Sombre,  or  wild  unto  Grotesqueness, 
Religion  can  find  no  Offence,  Virtue  no  Wrong, 

Nor  Innocence  take  alarm. 

He  passed  a  Life  tragic  enough  to  serve  for  Warning, 

Stinging  his  generation  into  Wrath,  and  by  it  stung  into  Frenzy ; 

Yet,  through  his  Genius,  lifted  victorious  above  Detraction, 

He  has  happily  made  sure  of 

POSTERITY. 


THE  EXILE  TO   HIS  WIFE. 

BY    JOSEPH    BRENNAN. 

[BORN  in  the  North  of  Ireland  in  1829,  Joseph  Brennan  spent  the  greater  part  of 
his  childhood  and  youth  in  Cork.  In  1848,  after  joining  the  Young  Ireland  Party,  he 
became  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Irish  Felon.  After  his  release  from  a  ten  months' 
imprisonment  in  Dublin  and  in  Belfast,  he  was  made  editor  of  the  Irishman,  but  did 
not  hold  this  position  long  before  he  was  implicated  in  a  revolutionary  movement  that 
constrained  him  to  fly  to  America.  He  found  an  exile's  home  in  New  Orleans,  where  he 
was  for  several  years  connected  with  the  Delta  and  with  the  True  Delta.  He  died  in  that 
city  ere  he  attained  his  thirtieth  year.] 

COME  to  me,  dearest,  I'm  lonely  without  thee. 
Day-time  and  night-time,  I'm  thinking  about  thee ; 
Night-time  and  day-time,  in  dreams  I  behold  thee ; 
Unwelcome  the  waking  which  ceases  to  fold  thee. 
Come  to  me,  darling,  my  sorrows  to  lighten ; 
Come  in  thy  beauty  to  bless  and  to  brighten ; 
Come  in  thy  womanhood,  meekly  and  lowly  ; 
Come  in  thy  lovingness,  queenly  and  holy. 

Swallows  will  flit  'round  the  desolate  ruin, 
Telling  of  spring  and  its  joyous  renewing, 
And  thoughts  of  thy  love  and  its  manifold  treasure 
Are  circling  my  heart  with  a  promise  of  pleasure. 
O  Spring  of  my  spirit !     O  May  of  my  bosom  ! 
Shine  out  on  my  soul,  till  it  bourgeon  and  blossom  ; 
The  waste  of  my  life  has  a  rose-root  within  it, 
And  thy  fondness  alone  to  the  sunshine  can  win  it. 

Figure  that  moves  like  a  song  through  the  even, 
Features  lit  up  by  a  reflex  of  heaven ; 
Eyes  like  the  skies  of  poor  Erin,  our  mother, 
Where  shadow  and  sunshine  are  chasing  each  other ; 
Smile  coming  seldom,  but  childlike  and  simple, 
Planting  in  each  rosy  cheek  a  sweet  dimple ; — 
Oh,  thanks  to  the  Saviour,  that  even  thy  seeming 
Is  left  to  the  exile  to  brighten  his  dreaming ! 


506  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

You  have  been  glad  when  you  knew  I  was  gladdened  ; 
Dear,  are  you  sad  now  to  hear  I  am  saddened  ? 
Our  hearts  ever  answer  in  tune  and  in  time,  love, 
As  octave  to  octave,  and  rhyme  unto  rhyme,  love. 
I  cannot  weep  but  your  tears  will  be  flowing, 
You  cannot  smile  but  my  cheek  will  be  glowing. 
I  would  not  die  without  you  at  my  side,  love ; 
You  will  not  linger  when  I  shall  have  died,  love. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  ere  I  die  of  my  sorrow, 
Rise  on  my  gloom  like  the  sun  of  to-morrow — 
Strong,  swift,  and  fond  as  the  words  which  I  speak,  love, 
With  a  song  on  your  lip,  and  a  smile  on  your  cheek,  love. 
Come,  for  my  heart  in  your  absence  is  weary  ; 
Haste,  for  my  spirit  is  sickened  and  dreary. 
Come  to  the  arms  which  alone  should  caress  thee, 
Come  to  the  heart  that  is  throbbing  to  press  thee. 


LORD,   KEEP  MY  MEMORY   GREEN! 

BY    ANNA    PEYRE    DINNIES. 

[ANNA  PEYRE  (SHACKLEFORD)  DINNIES  was  born  in  Georgetown,  S.  C.,  in  1816.  In 
1830  she  was  married  to  John  C.  Dinnies,  of  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  and  resided  in  that  city 
until  1846,  when  the  family  removed  to  New  Orleans.  Under  the  pen-name  of  "  Moina," 
both  before  and  after  her  marriage,  she  wrote  many  poems  which  -attracted  attention. 
She  contributed  to  the  leading  periodicals  of  the  South,  and  depicted  the  beauty  of  the 
home  affections  in  melodious  verse.  She  died  in  New  Orleans,  August  8,  1886.] 

IN.  the  shifting  scenes  of  life, 

Filled  with  sorrow,  toil,  and  strife, 

May  no  shadow  overcast 

Those  through  which  my  soul  has  past ! 

May  no  fabled  Lethe  pour 

Its  dark  waves  my  memory  o'er  ; 

Hiding  aught  of  pain  or  care 

GOD  has  traced  in  wisdom  there ! 

On  the  tablets  of  my  brain, 
Ever  let  the  past  remain ; 
Wrong  and  suffering,  deeply  felt, 
Still  by  Mercy's  hand  were  dealt ; 
And  the  keenest  pang  I've  known  • 
Came  from  the  ALMIGHTY'S  throne, 
Some  blessed  mission  to  fulfil — 
Humble  pride,  or  save  from  ill ! 

Good  and  evil— weal  and  woe— 
From  the  same  pure  fountain  flow, 
Though  their  purposes  may  be 
Hidden  from  humanity ! 
Blessings  visible  no  more 
Tell,  than  griefs  which  we  endure, 
Truths,  which  all  things  serve  to  prove, 
God  is  justice !— God  is  love ! 

This  our  Faith  divinely  teaches— 
This  Experience  ever  preaches — 


508  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

This  the  lesson  Keason  draws, 
When  on  Time's  swift  course  we  pause — 
This  the  firm  conviction  given, 
Through  communings  oft  with  Heaven ; 
Bidding  us  when  all  is  seen, 

Ask,  "  LOED,  KEEP  MY  MEMORY  GREEN  !  " 


THE  WIFE. 

BY    ANNA   PEYEE   DINNIES. 

I  GOULD  have  stemmed  misfortune's  tide, 

And  borne  the  rich  one's  sneer — 
Have  braved  the  haughty  glance  of  pride, 

Nor  shed  a  single  tear ; 
I  could  have  smiled  on  every  blow 

From  life's  full  quiver  thrown, 
While  I  but  gaze  on  thee,  and  know 

I  shall  not  be  "  alone." 

I  could — I  think  I  could — have  brooked, 

E'en  for  a  time,  that  thou 
Upon  my  fading  face  hadst  looked 

With  less  of  love  than  now  ; 
For  then  I  should  at  least  have  felt 

The  sweet  hope  still  my  own 
To  win  thee  back,  and,  whilst  I  dwelt 

On  earth,  not  been  "  alone." 

But  thus  to  see  from  day  to  day 

Thy  brightening  eye  and  cheek, 
And  watch  thy  life-sands  waste  away, 

Unnumbered,  slow,  and  meek ; 
To  meet  thy  smiles  of  tenderness, 

And  catch  the  feeble  tone 
Of  kindness,  ever  breathed  to  bless, 

And  feel  I'll  be  "alone"; 

To  mark  thy  strength  each  hour  decay, 

And  yet  thy  hopes  grow  stronger, 
As,  filled  with  heavenward  trust,  they  say 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee  longer ; 
Nay,  dearest,  'tis  too  much — this  heart 

Must  break  when  thou  art  gone  ; 
It  must  not  be ;  we  must  not  part ; 

I  could  not  live  "  alone." 


POWERS'S  GREEK  SLAVE. 

BY    ANNA    PEYRE    DIXNIES. 

MOVE  gently,  gently — GALATEA  lives ! 

Again  hath  Genius  waked  to  life  the  stone ! 
Art,  with  creative  touch,  here  Beauty  gives, 

And  matchless  Grace  and  Purity  are  shown  ! 
Mark  the  expression  on  her  brow  and  cheek, 
And  start  not  if  those  parted  lips  should  speak. 

Gently,  ay,  gently,  in  her  presence  move  ; 

A  sacred  thing  is  sorrow  such  as  hers  ! 
For,  though  her  Christian  faith  its  depth  reprove, 

Its  hushed  emotion  every  feature  stirs. 
The  swelling  nostril,  and  the  lip's  slight  curl, 
Betray  thy  struggles,  hapless,  captive  girl ! 

Thy  faultless  figure  in  its  perfect  grace 
Charms  but  a  moment  as  we  lift  our  eyes 

Up  to  the  holier  beauty  of  thy  face, 

Where  the  sad  history  of  thy  young  life  lies  ; 

Engraven  on  each  lineament  serene 

Is  what  thou  art — what  once  thy  fate  has  been  ! 

Beloved — how  deeply,  let  thy  beauty  tell ! 

Wooed — as  fair  maids  are  ever  wooed  and  won ! 
Torn  from  thy  early  home,  where  loved  ones  dwell, 

And  placed  in  chains — for  men  to  gaze  upon  ! 
Deep  is  thy  grief,  young  girl !  but  strength  is  given 
To  bear  its  burthen  by  thy  trust  in  Heaven ! 

Yes  !  strength  is  given  by  that  faith  divine, 
To  thy  proud  spirit,  to  sustain  its  woe, 

And  through  thy  lovely  features  still  to  shine, 
Veiling  their  beauty  in  its  own  mild  glow  ; 

While  every  shade  seems  so  instinct  with  life, 

We  deem  thee  living — like  Pygmalion's  wife. 


THE  WILD   LILT   AKD   THE   PASSION-FLOWER 

BY    ADRIEN   ROTJQUETTE. 

[  ADRIEN  EMMANUEL  ROUQUETTE  was  born  in  New  Orleans,  February  13,  1813.  Sent 
to  France  during  his  youth,  he  was  educated  at  the  College  de  Xantes,  making  a 
special  study  while  there  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics.  On  leaving  college,  he  spent 
ten  years  in  visiting  the  various  capitals  of  Europe  ;  then  he  returned  to  this  country 
and  devoted  himself  for  awhile  to  the  study  of  law.  Later  he  took  up  his  residence  in 
St.  Tammany  Parish,  La.,  and  ministered  to  the  needs  of  the  Choctaw  Indians,  in  whose 
welfare  and  destiny  he  had  become  especially  interested.  In  1845  he  was  ordained  a 
priest  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  and  converted  many  Indian  tribes  to  that  ancient 
faith.  His  best  poetry  is  written  in  French,  but  his  English  lyrics  are  deserving  of  high 
praise.  His  brother,  Dominique  Fra^ois,  who  was,  undoubtedly,  the  greater  poet,  was 
also  learned  in  English,  but  composed  poetry  exclusively  in  French.  Speaking  of  these 
remarkable  brothers,  Professor  Alcee  Fortier  says  :  "  From  their  earliest  youth  they  held 
in  their  hands  the  lute  and  the  lyre,  and  in  old  age  the  language  of  poetry  seemed  to 
be  natural  to  them.  .  .  .  They  lived  in  solitary  Bonfouca,  in  the  magnificent  pine 
forest  watered  by  those  romantic  rivulets,  the  Tchefuncte,  the  Bogue-Falaya,  and 
Bayou  Lacombe.  Around  them  were  the  remnants  of  the  Choctaws,  the  faithful  allies 
of  the  French  ;  and  in  the  wigwams  of  the  Indians,  the  brothers  used  to  sit  to  smoke  the 
calumet  with  the  chiefs,  or  to  look  at  the  silent  squaws  skilfully  weaving  the  wicker 
baskets  which  they  were  to  sell  the  next  morning  at  the  noisy  '  Marche  Francais.'  Father 
Rouquette's  works  include  :  Les  Savanes  (1841)  ;  Wild  Flowers;  Sacred  Poetry  (1848)  ; 
La  Ttiebaid*  en  Amerique  (1852)  ;  L'Antonaide  (1860)  ;  PoSmes  Patriotique*  (1860)  : 
Catherine  Tegchkwitha  (1873).  His  last  work  was  a  satire  on  George  W.  Cable's  The 
Grandissimei,  entitled,  Critical  Dialogue  between  Aboo  and  Caboo  on  a  New  Book;  or,  A 
Grandissime  Ascension.  Father  Rouquette  died  in  New  Orleans,  July  15,  1887.] 

SWEET  flow'r  of  light, 
The  queen  of  solitude, 

The  image  bright 
Of  grace-born  maidenhood, 

Thou  risest  tall, 
Midst  struggling  weeds  that  droop  : 

Thy  lieges  aU, 
They  humbly  bow  and  stoop  ! 

Dark-colored  flow'r, 
How  solemn,  awful,  sad ! — 

I  feel  thy  pow'r, 
O  king,  in  purple  clad  \ 


POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

With  head  recline, 
Thou  art  the  emblem  dear 

Of  woes  divine ; 
The  flow'r  I  most  revere ! 

The  lily  white, 
The  purple  passion-flow'r, 

Mount  Thabor  bright, 
The  gloomy  Olive-bow'r. 

Such  is  our  life — 
Alternate  joys  and  woes, 

Short  peace,  long  strife, 
Few  friends,  and  many  foes ! 

My  friend,  away 
All  waitings  here  below : 

The  ROYAL  WAY 

To  realms  above  is  woe ! 


TO  NATURE,  MY  MOTHER. 

BY   ADRIEX   BOUQrETTK. 


powerful,  smiling,  calm, 
To  my  unquiet  heart, 
Thy  peace  distilling  as  a  balm, 
Thy  mighty  life  impart. 

0  Nature,  mother,  still  the  same, 
So  lovely  mild  with  me, 

To  live  in  peace,  unsung  by  fame, 
Unchanged  I  come  to  thee  ; 

1  come  to  live  as  saints  have  lived, 

I  fly  where  they  have  fled, 
By  men  unholy  never  grieved, 
In  prayer  my  tears  to  shed. 

Alone  with  thee,  from  cities  far, 
Dissolved  each  earthly  tie  ; 

By  some  divine  magnetic  star 
Attracted  still  on  high. 

Oh,  that  my  heart,  inhaling  love 

And  life  with  ecstasy, 
From  this  low  world  to  worlds  above 

Could  rise  exultingly  I 


TO   A  MINIATUKE. 

BY    JOHN    W.    OVERALL. 

[JOHN  WILFORD  OVERALL  was  born  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley,  Va. ,  September  25, 1822. 
In  early  manhood  he  went  to  New  Orleans,  where  he  was,  for  a  while,  on  the  staff  of  the 
City  Printer.  Subsequently  he  became  editor  of  the  Daily  Delta,  and  then  of  the  Daily 
True  Delta.  He  has  also  been  editorially  associated  with  the  press  of  Mobile,  Richmond, 
Galveston,  and  St.  Louis.  Since  1876  he  has  resided  in  New  York,  where  he  has  been 
for  several  years  the  literary  editor  of  the  Mercury.  In  his  Catechism  of  tJie  Constitu- 
tion of  the  United  States,  he  holds  the  fundamental  doctrine  that  "delegated  power  is 
not  sovereign  powers:  it  is  a  trust!"  He  is  a  poet  of  no  low  order,  and  during  the  Civil 
War  he  added  some  stirring  lyrics  to  the  verse  of  that  martial  time.] 

'Tis  strange  that  Art  can  weave  a  face 

So  radiant  and  divine, 
So  eloquent  with  thought  and  grace, 

So  beautiful  as  thine. 
I  almost  see  the  warm  blood  seek 

The  blue  veins  on  thy  brow, 
And  glow  upon  thy  pearly  cheek — 

So  life-like  seemest  thou. 

I  love  thy  dark  eye's  sunny  glee ; 

There's  something  in  its  glance 
That  tells  thy  heart  is  fond  and  free, 

And  full  of  love's  romance. 
The  dimpled  lake,  the  sky's  soft  glow, 

Can  no  such  charms  impart, 
As  those  which  thou  dost  mutely  throw 

Around  the  burning  heart. 

And  o'er  that  bosom,  white  as  snow, 

Entwined  in  thy  fair  finger, 
Dark,  dreamy  silken  ringlets  flow, 

As  if  they  loved  to  linger  ; 
And  blest  as  heaven  are  they  blest, 

Kocked  in  their  sea- wave  motion, 
Like  shadows  on  the  tiny  breast 

Of  some  sweet  mimic  ocean. 


TO  A  MINIATURE.  515 

Oh,  couldst  thou  break  the  silent  spell 

That  binds  thy  lips  so  long, 
Each  soft,  enchanting  tone  would  tell 

That  thou  wert  born  for  song ! 
To  me,  Art's  melody  but  mocks — 

For  in  the  gilded  South, 
The  softest,  sweetest  music-box 

Is  woman's  rosy  mouth ! 

How  fair  these  daughters  of  the  sun, 

These  black-eyed,  sparkling  things, 
These  jewels  of  the  Holy  One, 

These  angels  without  wings ! 
One  golden  look,  one  crystal  tear, 

One  sweet  emphatic  word, 
Is  worth  the  wealth  of  Ind,  so  dear, 

Or  all  we've  seen  or  heard. 

Lo !  dreams  of  love  fled  by,  yet  sweet, 

Come  back  to  me  again, 
Like  parted  angels  when  they  meet 

In  Aiden's  dear  domain. 
And  gazing  in  those  orbs  of  light, 

Did  I  but  know  thee,  girl, 
I'd  brave  the  battle's  fiercest  fight, 

For  one  bright  smile  or  curl ! 


THE  BARDS. 

BY    JOHN    W.    OVERALL. 

IN  their  high  heroic  measure, 

In  their  high  heroic  truth, 
Live  the  bards  throughout  all  ages, 

In  the  quenchless  fire  of  youth ; 
"We  revel  in  their  visions, 

And  we  love  the  songs  they  sing, 
When  they  strike  the  harp  of  glory 

Like  the  Israelitish  king. 

They  have  read  the  starry  heavens — 

These  diviners  of  the  stars — 
Read  Uranus  and  the  Pleiades, 

And  the  fiery  planet  Mars ; 
They  have  soared  among  the  planets, 

They  have  swept  the  fields  of  Time ; 
They  have  soared  up  in  the  spirit — 

Bards  heroic  and  sublime ! 

And  they  gather  from  the  planets, 

Where  their  spirit-feet  have  trod, 
Light  and  supernal  wisdom, 

And  a  lucid  proof  of  God ; 
And  feel  the  truth  eternal 

O'er  their  yearning  spirits  steal, 
That  the  Real  is  the  Ideal, 

That  the  Ideal  is  the  Real ! 


They  come,  like  John  the  Baptist, 

In  the  wilderness  of  Thought, 
Preaching  in  the  world's  Judaea 

What  the  holy  Teacher  taught ; 
They  come  with  lips  of  wisdom, 

Aiid  they  strike  the  sounding 
Lips  radiant  with  the  glow  of  love 

And  high  prophetic  fire. 


THE  BARDS.  517 

They  summon  white-browed  Helen 

From  the  old-forgotten  strife, 
And  Plataea's  men,  and  Marathon's, 

To  the  vestibule  of  life. 
We  see  the  glittering  of  the  steel 

Under  the  Latian  stars, 
The  beaks  of  the  Koman  eagles, 

And  the  red,  round  shield  of  Mars. 

They  tell  of  brave  old  legends, 

Legends  of  the  priestly  age ; 
Of  ladye  fair,  with  golden  hair, 

Courtly  peer  and  gentle  page. 
We  see  the  knights  and  barons 

Coming  forth  in  martial  line, 
And  Richard  of  the  Lion-heart 

On  the  plains  of  Palestine. 

We  mark  the  pennon  and  the  plume, 

We  see  the  shivering  lance, 
And  Cressy  with  its  bowmen, 

And  the  troubadours  of  France. 
We  mark  the  knights  at  Chevy  Chase, 

We  see  the  banners  fly, 
And  the  royal  Stuart  riding  down 

To  Flodden  Hill  to  die. 

Ah !  the  Past  with  all  its  visions 

Comes  before  us  in  its  prime — 
All  the  olden,  golden  glory 

Of  the  golden,  olden  time. 
Thus  in  high  heroic  measure, 

And  in  high  heroic  truth, 
lave  the  bards  throughout  all  ages, 

In  the  quenchless  fire  of  youth. 

Unlike  the  men  who  speak  alone 

For  the  passing  things  of  time, 
The  bards  speak  for  all  ages 

In  the  lofty  words  of  rhyme, 
Not  for  the  coming  morrow, 

Not  for  the  brief  to-day, 
Stir  the  bards  the  harp's  wild  pulses, 

Sing  the  bards  their  noble  lay. 


518  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  they  die  not,  these  heroic  bards, 

They  live  on  with  the  stars, 
With  Uranus  and  the  Pleiades, 

And  the  fiery  planet  Mars. 
They  are  spirits  of  Earth  and  Aiden, 

Earth  and  Aiden  hear  them  sing, 
When  they  strike  the  harp  of  glory, 

Like  the  Israelitish  king. 


AT   THE   THEATRE. 

BY    HENRY    LYNDEN    FLASH. 

[HENRY  LYNDEN  FLASH  was  born  in  Cincinnati,  0.,  January  20,  1835.  He  is  a 
graduate  of  the  Western  Military  Institute  of  Kentucky.  He  was  engaged,  for  about 
twenty  years  following  the  Civil  War,  in  mercantile  pursuits  in  New  Orleans.  He  then 
removed  to  Los  Angeles,  Cal.,  where  he  still  resides.  His  only  book,  Poems  (1860), 
deserves  to  be  better  known.  Mr.  J.  Wood  Davidson,  in  The  Living  Writers  of  the 
South  (1869),  says  :  "  Mr.  Flash's  power  of  antithesis  is  unequalled  in  the  South.  Rapid 
condensation,  quick  suggestion,  and  a  masterly  choice  of  expressive  words  mark  all  he 
has  written.  In  these  qualities  he  stands  nearer  to  Owen  Meredith  than  does  any  other 
living  poet."] 

I  ENTERED  the  lobby,  dreaming  a  dream, 

As  Marco,  cruel  and  cold, 
Pressed  her  snowy  hand  on  the  marble  heart 

That  had  just  been  bought  and  sold ; 
But  my  spirit  was  off  on  a  journey  then, 

To  the  happy  days  of  old. 

Step  by  step  did  it  slowly  go, 

Down  the  silent  yesterdays, 
Till  it  came  to  a  year  that  was  bright  with  love 

And  all  the  months  were  Mays, 
And  it  met  a  spirit  purer  far 

Than  those  you  see  in  plays. 

The  house  was  crowded  then  as  now, 

And  some  were  pale  with  fear 
As  they  watched  the  play,  and  in  many  an  eye 

Was  a  tender,  pitying  tear, 
As  Cordelia,  dead  in  her  stainless  robes, 

Was  borne  in  the  arms  of  Lear. 

I  turned  away  from  the  saddening  sight, 

And  staggered  with  surprise, 
As  I  met  the  wonderful  light  that  flowed 

From  Maud's  immaculate  eyes ; 
Our  hearts  met  then — they  will  meet  again 

In  the  bowers  of  paradise. 


520  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

Twelve  months  of  May,  and  then,  alas ! 

The  blast  came  bleak  and  chill ! 
It  killed  the  rose  upon  her  cheek, 

The  lily  pleaded  still ;. 
In  vain  the  prayer — she  sleeps  beneath 

The  willow  on  the  hill. 

And  while  the  actors  play  their  parts, 
My  soul  takes  up  its  woe, 

And  with  its  burden  travels  back 
To  the  buried  long  ago — 

To  the  happy  dreamland  of  my  life, 
Where  roses  always  blow. 

And  now,  while  others  watch  the  play, 

I  visit  my  spirit  wife, 
And  pray  that  the  Tragedy  may  end, 

"With  its  pitiless  pain  and  strife — 
That  my  darling  and  I  may  meet  again 

In  everlasting  life. 


WHAT   SHE   BROUGHT  ME. 

BY  HENRY  LYNDEN  FLASH. 

THIS  faded  flower  that  you  see 

Was  given  me  a  year  ago, 
By  one  whose  little  dainty  hand 

Is  whiter  than  the  snow. 

Her  eyes  are  blue  as  violets, 

And  she's  a  blonde,  and  very  fair, 

And  sunset  tints  are  not  as  bright 
As  is  her  golden  hair. 

And  there  are  roses  in  her  cheeks 
That  come  and  go  like  living  things ; 

Her  voice  is  softer  than  the  brook's 
That  flows  from  hidden  springs. 

She  gave  it  me  with  downcast  eyes, 

And  rosy  flushes  of  the  cheek, 
That  told  of  tender  thoughts  her  tongue 

Had  never  learned  to  speak. 

The  fitting  words  had  just  been  said, 
And  she  was  mine  as  long  as  life  ; 

I  gently  laid  the  flower  aside, 
And  kissed  my  blushing  wife. 

She  took  it  up  with  earnest  look, 
And  said,  "  Oh,  prize  the  flower,"- 

And  tender  tears  were  in  her  eyes — 
"  It  is  my  only  dower." 

She  brought  me  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Truth, 
She  brought  me  gentle  thoughts  and  love, 

A  soul  as  pure  as  those  that  float 
Around  the  throne  above. 


522,  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

But  earthly  things  she  nothing  had, 
Except  this  faded  flower  you  see ; 

And  though  'tis  worthless  in  your  eyes, 
'Tis  very  dear  to  me. 


WHO  CAN  TELL? 

BY    HENRY   LYNDEN   FLASH. 

SHE  lived  a  life  of  sin  and  shame, 

Spurned  by  the  fool,  shunned  by  the  good- 
A  withered  hope,  a  blasted  name, 

A  blighted  womanhood. 

She  died  within  a  loathsome  den, 
Unwept-f or  to  the  grave  was  borne, 

While  sleek-cheeked,  pious  hypocrites 
Sneered  with  a  smile  of  scorn, 

And  said,  "  This  is  the  end  of  sin, 

And  .Satan  now  has  claimed  his  own." 
Forgetting  Christ — "  He  that  is  pure, 
Let  him  first  cast  a  stone." 

"  Judge  not,  lest  ye  be  judged,"  he  said ; 

And  e'en  the  thief  upon  the  cross 
Gave  up  his  life  in  penitence— 

A  gainer  by  the  loss. 

And  gentle  Mercy  pleads  for  all, 

And  she  perhaps  may  dwell 
Up  with  the  singing  hosts  of  heaven — 

Peace,  bigot !  who  can  tell  1 


THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG.* 

WE  are  a  band  of  brothers,  and  natives  to  the  soil, 

Fighting  for  the  property  we  gained  by  honest  toil ; 

And  when  our  rights  were  threatened,  the  cry  rose  near  and  far,. 

Hurrah  for  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  the  single  star ! 


Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag 
That  bears  the  single  star. 

As  long  as  the  Union  was  faithful  to  her  trust, 

Like  friends  and  like  brothers,  kind  were  we  and  just ; 

But  now,  when  Northern  treachery  attempts  our  rights  to  mar, 

We  hoist  on  high  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  the  single  star. 

First  gallant  South  Carolina  nobly  made  the  stand ; 

Then  came  Alabama,  who  took  her  by  the  hand ; 

Next  quickly  Mississippi,  Georgia,  and  Florida — 

All  raised  the  flag,  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star. 

Ye  men  of  valor,  gather  round  the  banner  of  the  right ; 
Texas  and  fair  Louisiana  join  us  in  the  fight. 
Davis,  our  loved  President,  and  Stephens,  statesmen  are ; 
Now  rally  round  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star. 

And  here's  to  brave  Virginia !     The  Old  Dominion  State 
With  the  young  Confederacy  at  length  has  linked  her  fate. 
Impelled  by  her  example,  now  other  States  prepare 
To  hoist  on  high  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star. 

Then  here's  to  our  Confederacy  !    Strong  we  are  and  brave  ; 
Like  patriots  of  old  we'll  fight,  our  heritage  to  save ; 
And  rather  than  submit  to  shame,  to  die  we  would  prefer ; 
So  cheer  for  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star. 

*  [This  popular  Southern  war  ballad  was  composed  by  the  actor  Harry  McCarthy, 
and  was  sung  by  his  sister  at  the  New  Orleans  Varieties  Theatre  in  the  early  part  of  the 
Civil  War.] 


THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG.  525 

Then  cheer,  boys,  cheer !  raise  the  joyous  shout, 

For  Arkansas  and  North  Carolina  now  have  both  gone  out ; 

And  let  another  rousing  cheer  for  Tennessee  be  given. 

The  single  star  of  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  has  grown  to  be  eleven ! 


MY   MAKYLAND. 


BY   JAMES    R.    KANDALL. 

[JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL  was  born  in  Baltimore,  Md.,  January  1,  1836.  In  youth  he 
studied  at  Georgetown  College.  He  first  became  well  known  in  Louisiana  as  editor  of 
the  Pointe  Coupee  Banner.  At  a  later  date  he  was  employed  on  the  staff  of  the  New 
Orleans  Sunday  Delta.  In  this  journal  appeared  his  famous  My  Maryland,  which  has 
been  called  the  Marseillaise  of  the  Confederate  cause.  In  1866  he  became  editor-in- 
chief  of  the  Augusta  (Ga.)  Constitutionalist.} 

THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 

His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 

That  necked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 

And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother-State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ' 

•   Eemember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Kemember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland ! 


MY  MARYLAND.  527 

Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Einggold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland ! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come !  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  Liberty  along, 
And  ring  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland ! 

Dear  Mother !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain — 
"  Sic  semper"  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise,  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland  t 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek- 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 


528  POETR  Y—MISCELLANEO  US. 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb— 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She  breathes — she  burns !  she'll  come !  she'll  come ! 
Maryland !     My  Maryland ! 


JOHX  PELHAM. 

BY    JAMES    K.    RANDALL. 

JUST  as  the  spring  came  laughing  through  the  strife, 

With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer ; 
In  the  bright  April  of  historic  life 

Fell  the  great  cannoneer. 

The  wondrous  lulling  of  a  hero's  breath 

His  bleeding  country  weeps  ; 
Hushed  in  the  alabaster  arms  of  death, 

Our  young  Marcellus  sleeps. 

Nobler  and  grander  than  the  Child  of  Rome, 

Curbing  his  chariot  steeds, 
The  knightly  scion  of  a  Southern  home 

Dazzled  the  land  with  deeds. 

Gentlest  and  bravest  in  the  battle  brunt, 

The  champion  of  the  truth, 
He  bore  his  banner  to  the  very  front 

Of  our  immortal  youth. 

A  clang  of  sabres  'mid  Virginian  snow, 

The  fiery  pang  of  shells — 
And  there's  a  wail  of  immemorial  woe 

In  Alabama  dells. 

The  pennon  drops  that  led  the  sacred  band 

Along  the  crimson  field ; 

The  meteor  blade  sinks  from  the  nerveless  hand 
Over  the  spotless  shield. 

We  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  beauteous  face, 

While  'round  the  lips  and  eyes, 
Couched  in  the  marble  slumber,  flashed  the  grace 

Of  a  divine  surprise. 
34 


530  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

Oh,  mother  of  a  blessed  soul  on  high  ! 

Thy  tears  may  soon  be  shed — 
Think  of  thy  boy  with  princes  of  the  sky, 

Among  the  Southern  dead. 

How  must  he  smile  on  this  dull  world  beneath, 

Fevered  with  swift  renown — 
He — with  the  martyr's  amaranthine  wreath 

Twining  the  victor's  crown  ! 


IN  MEMOKIAM.* 

BY    JOHN    DIMITKY. 

Behind  this  Stone  is  laid 
For  a  Season, 

ALBERT  SYDNEY  JOHNSTON: 

A  General  in  the  Army  of  the  Confederate  States, 
Who  fell  at  Shiloh,  Tennessee, 
On  the  sixth  day  of  April,  A.D. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-two. 
A  man  tried  in  many  high  offices 
And  critical  Enterprises, 
And  found  faithful  in  all ; 
His  life  was  one  long  Sacrifice  of  Interest  to  Conscience ; 

And  even  that  life,  on  a  woeful  Sabbath, 
Did  he  yield  as  a  Holocaust  at  his  Country's  Need. 
Not  wholly  understood  was  he  while  he  lived  ; 
But,  in  his  death,  his  Greatness  stands  confessed 

In  a  People's  tears. 

Resolute,  moderate,  clear  of  envy,  yet  not  wanting 
In  that  finer  Ambition  which  makes  men  great  and  pure ; 
In  his  Honor — impregnable ; 
In  his  Simplicity — sublime ; 

No  Country  e'er  had  a  truer  Son — no  Cause  a  nobler  Champion  ; 
No  People  a  bolder  Defender — no  Principle  a  purer  Yictim, 
Than  the  dead  Soldier 

"Who  sleeps  here ! 

The  Cause  for  which  he  perished  is  lost — 
The  People  for  whom  he  fought  are  crushed — 
The  Hopes  in  which  he  trusted  are  shattered — 
The  Flag  he  loved  guides  no  more  the  charging  lines ; 
But  his  Fame,  consigned  to  the  keeping  of  that  Time,  which, 
Happily,  is  not  so  much  the  Tomb  of  Virtue  as  its  Shrine, 
Shall,  in  the  years  to  come,  fire  Modest  Worth  to  Noble  Ends. 

In  honor,  now,  our  great  Captain  rests ; 

*  [Lord  Palmerston  pronounced  this  epitaph  "a  modern  classic,  Ciceronian  in  its 
language."] 


532  POETR  Y—MISCELLA  NEO  US. 

A  bereaved  People  mourn  him ; 
Three  Commonwealths  proudly  claim  him ; 

And  History  shall  cherish  him 
Among  those  Choicer  Spirits,  who,  holding  their  Conscience  unmixed 

with  blame, 

Have  been,  in  all  Conjunctures,  true  to  themselves,  their  People,  and 

their  God. 


ZOLLICOFFEE. 

BY    HENRY    LYNDEN    FLASH. 

FIRST  in  the  fight,  and  first  in  the  arms 
Of  the  white-winged  angels  of  glory, 

With  the  heart  of  the  South  at  the  feet  of  God, 
And  his  wounds  to  tell  the  story. 

And  the  blood  that  flowed  from  his  hero  heart, 
On  the  spot  where  he  nobly  perished, 

Was  drunk  by  the  earth  as  a  sacrament 
In  the  holy  cause  he  cherished. 

In  heaven  a  home  with  the  brave  and  blessed, 

And,  for  his  soul's  sustaining, 
The  apocalyptic  eyes  of  Christ ; 

And  nothing  on  earth  remaining — 

But  a  handful  of  dust  in  the  land  of  his  choice, 

A  name  in  song  and  story, 
And  Fame  to  shout  with  her  brazen  voice, 

"  Died  on  the  Field  of  Glory ! " 


"STONEWALL"   JACKSON. 

BY    HENRY    LYNDEN    FLASH. 

NOT  'midst  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight, 
Not  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 

Did  kingly  death,  with  his  resistless  might, 
Lay  the  great  leader  low ! 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  bore 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town ; 

When  all  the  storm  was  hushed,  the  trusty  oak 
That  propped  our  cause  went  down. 

Though  his  alone  the  blood  that  flecks  the  ground, 
Recording  all  his  grand,  heroic  deeds, 

Freedom  herself  is  writhing  with  his  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  not  the  nation's  "  Promised  Land," 
At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth  ; 

But  broke  the  "  House  of  Bondage  "  with  his  hand- 
The  Moses  of  the  South ! 

Oh,  gracious  God !  not  gainless  is  our  loss : 
A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  Thy  sternest  frown ; 

And  while  his  country  staggers  with  the  cross — 
He  rises  with  the  crown ! 


LINES   TO    THE   MEMORY    OF   FATHER  TURGIS. 

BY   T.    WHARTON   COLLENS. 

March  weaponless  and  think  of  God, 

Muffle  the  roll  of  war's  tambour, 
Dig  me  a  grave  beneath  the  sod. 

And  have  me  buried  with  the  poor. 

So  spoke  the  holy  priest  and  died. 
Let  no  mausoleum  rise  in  pride 
O'er  where  his  sacred  bones  repose, 
But  mark  the  humble  grave  he  chose 
"With  the  Redeemer's  cross  of  wood — 
Glorious,  though  'tis  low  and  rude. 

No  sword  bore  he  'midst  battling  hosts ; 
Yet  when  the  lines  of  .bayonets 
Met  with  their  deadly  clash  and  thrust, 
When  howling  balls  and  whizzing  bullets 
Swept,  gathering  harvest  o'er  the  plain, 
There  'mong  the  wounded  and  the  slain, 
While  boomed  the  deep  artillery, 
"While  blazed  the  rattling  musketry, 
While  fire  and  smoke  rose  round  the  brave, 
While  mingled  blood  of  friend  and  foe 
Gushed  out  with  groans  of  death  and  woe — 
There  went  the  Christian  priest  to  save, 
To  save — to  bring  the  bread  of  life, 
Reclaim  a  soul  from  hell  and  strife. 

From  bleeding  form  to  bleeding  form, 
Resigned,  devoted,  through  the  storm, 
Seeking  God's  own,  here,  there  he  ran, 
This  gentle  one,  this  unarmed  man ; 
Fearless  he  strove,  nor  prayed  release, 
This  chieftain  of  the  Prince  of  Peace.         nn 

Father !  haste  thee  from  this  deadly  field ; 
Leave  us  in  our  blood — there  is  no  shield 
To  screen  thy  holy  breast.     Farewell ! 


536  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

—  Nay,  nay  !  my  son,  for  here  I  tell 
Of  Him  who  lifts  a  living  soul 
From  dying  flesh  ;  and  to  the  goal 
Of  heaven's  glory  bears  it  up 
To  drink  of  his  eternal  cup. 
Come !  list  of  Christ  the  pressing  call ! 
Think  not  of  me ;  for,  if  I  fall, 
Our  comrades,  flushed  with  victory, 
On  morrow's  dawn,  in  triumph's  glee, 
"Will  bear  us  hence  with  thoughts  of  God, 
Muffle  the  clang  of  war's  tambour, 
Dig  us  a  grave  beneath  the  sod, 
And  leave  us  buried  with  the  poor. 

Yea,  with  the  poor,  the  blessed  ones, 
Whose  hearts  yearned  not  for  worldly  wealth ; 
But  cheerful  hoped  for  heavenly  thrones, 
And  died  unknown  to  all  the  earth. 

No  records  here  their  memories  keep, 
Their  graves  deserted  none  can  tell ; 
But  when  on  clouds  comes  Jesus  bright, 
When  the  proud  men  shall  sink  to  hell, 
The  levelled  ground  where  now  they  sleep 
Will  burst  with  rays  of  dazzling  light, 
And  let  their  shining  bodies  rise 
To  meet  their  Saviour  in  the  skies. 

Follow  this  humble  corpse,  ye  braves, 
With  whom  'twas  once  a  tender,  cheering  friend- 
A  voice  that  told  the  truth  that  saves — 
A  hand  that  led  where  honor  could  attend. 
Follow  !  ye  chiefs  and  men  of  fame, 
Follow !  ye  mothers  of  the  dead, 
Follow  !  his  name  outshines  your  name — 
His  meek  and  venerable  head 
Has  won  a  fairer  wreath  than  yours : 
Yours  of  country,  his  of  heaven  ! 
Follow  !  while  forth  his  spirit  soars 
Triumphant,  to  its  higher  haven. 
Follow  unarmed  and  think  of  God. 
Muffle  the  beat  of  war's  tambour, 
Dig  him  a  grave  beneath  the  sod, 
And  leave  him  buried  with  the  poor. 


0,  TEMPORA !   O,  MORES  ! 

BY    J.    DICKSON    BRTJNS. 

[JOHN  DICKSON  BRUNS  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  February  24,  1836.  At  the  age 
of  twenty-one,  he  took  his  M.D.  degree  from  the  Medical  College  of  Charleston.  Dur- 
ing the  Civil  War  he  was  Surgeon  of  a  General  Hospital  of  the  Confederacy.  In  1866  he 
was  chosen  Professor  of  Physiology  and  Pathology  in  the  New  Orleans  School  of  Medi- 
cine. His  poetical  writings  evince  graceful  versification  and  marked  power  of  descrip- 
tion. He  died  in  New  Orleans,  May  20,  1883.] 

"  GREAT  PAN  is  dead  !  "  so  cried  an  airy  tongue 
To  one  who,  drifting  down  Calabria's  shore, 
Heard  the  last  knell,  in  starry  midnight  rung, 
Of  the  old  Oracles,  dumb  forevermore. 

A  low  wail  ran  along  the  shuddering  deep, 

And  as,  far  off,  its  flaming  accents  died, 
The  awe-struck  sailors,  startled  from  their  sleep, 

Gazed,  called  aloud :  no  answering  voice  replied — 

Nor  ever  will ;  the  angry  gods  have  fled, 

Closed  are  the  temples,  mute  are  all  the  shrines, 

The  fires  are  quenched,  Dodona's  growth  is  dead, 
The  Sibyl's  leaves  are  scattered  to  the  winds. 

lSTo  mystic  sentence  will  they  bear  again, 

Which,  sagely  spelled,  might  ward  a  nation's  doom  ; 

But  we  have  left  us  still  some  godlike  men, 

And  some  great  voices  pleading  from  the  tomb. 

If  we  would  heed  them,  they  might  save  us  yet, 
Call  up  some  gleams  of  manhood  in  our  breasts, 

Truth,  valor,  justice,  teach  us  to  forget 
In  a  grand  cause  our  selfish  interests. 

But  we  have  fallen  on  evil  times  indeed, 

When  public  faith  is  but  the  common  shame. 

And  private  morals  held  an  idiot's  creed, 
And  old-world  honesty  an  empty  name. 


538  POETR  Y—MISCELLA  NEO  US. 

And  lust,  and  greed,  and  gain  are  all  our  arts ! 

The  simple  lessons  which  our  fathers  taught 
Are  scorned  and  jeered  at ;  in  our  sordid  marts 

We  sell  the  faith  for  which  they  toiled  and  fought. 

Each  jostling  each  in  the  mad  strife  for  gold, 
The  weaker  trampled  by  the  unrecking  throng ; 

Friends,  honor,  country,  lost,  betrayed  or  sold, 
And  lying  blasphemies  on  every  tongue. 

Cant  for  religion,  sounding  words  for  truth  ; 

Fraud  leads  to  fortune,  gelt  for  guilt  atones ; 
No  care  for  hoary  age  or  tender  youth, 

For  widows'  tears  or  helpless  orphans'  groans. 

The  people  rage,  and  work  their  own  wild  will ; 

They  stone  the  prophets,  drag  their  highest  down, 
And  as  they  smite,  with  savage  folly  still 

Smile  at  their  work — those  dead  eyes  wear  no  frown. 

The  sage  of  "  Drainfield  "  *  tills  a  barren  soil, 
And  reaps  no  harvest  where  he  sowed  the  seed  ; 

He  has  but  exile  for  long  years  of  toil, 

Nor  voice  in  council,  though  his  children  bleed. 

And  nevermore  shall  "  Kedcliff's  "  f  oaks  rejoice, 
Now  bowed  with  grief  above  their  master's  bier  ; 

Faction  and  party  stilled  that  mighty  voice, 

Which  yet  could  teach  us  wisdom,  could  we  hear. 

And  "  Woodland's  "  ^  harp  is  mute ;  the  gray  old  man 
Broods  by  his  lonely  hearth  and  weaves  no  song ; 

Or,  if  he  sing,  the  note  is  sad  and  wan, 
Like  the  pale  face  of  one  who's  suffered  long. 

So  all  earth's  teachers  have  been  overborne 
By  the  coarse  crowd,  and  fainting  droop  or  die ; 

They  bear  the  cross,  their  bleeding  brows  the  thorn, 
And  ever  hear  the  clamor,  "  Crucify ! " 

*  The  country-seat  of  R.  Barnwell  Rhett. 
f  The  homestead  of  James  H.  Hammond. 
j  The  homestead  of  W.  Gilmore  Simms  (destroyed  by  Sherman's  army). 


0,  TEMPORA  !  0,  MORES!  539 

Oh,  for  a  man  with  godlike  heart  and  brain ! 

A  god  in  stature,  with  a  god's  great  will, 
And  fitted  to  the  time,  that  not  in  vain 

Be  all  the  blood  we've  spilt  and  yet  must  spill. 

O  brothers !  friends  !  shake  off  the  Circean  spell ! 

House  to  the  dangers  of  impending  fate ! 
Grasp  your  keen  swords,  and  all  may  yet  be  well — 

More  gain,  more  pelf,  and  it  will  be  too  late ! 
1864. 


A   RHYME   OF  MODERN  VENICE.* 

BY    CHARLES    PATTON    DIMITRY. 

"  HASTE  !  open  the  lattice,  Giulia, 

And  wheel  me  my  chair,  where  the  sun 
May  fall  on  my  face  as  I  welcome     • 

The  sound  of  the  life-giving  gun. 
So  young  when  the  Corsican  sold  us ! 
So  old  when  our  armies  repay ! 
Viva  !  Evviva  Italia  ! 
Viva  il  Re  ! 

"  Alas  for  these  years  and  this  weakness 

That  shackle  me  here  in  my  chair, 
While  the  people's  loud  vivas  are  rending 

The  chains  that  once  made  their  despair ! 
The  Austrian  leaves  with  the  morning, 
And  Venice  hath  Freedom  to-day. 
Viva  !  Evviva  Italia  ! 
Viva  il  Re  ! 

"  Ah,  would  that  I  only  were  younger, 

To  stand  with  the  rest  on  the  street, 
To  toss  up  my  cap  on  the  mola, 

And  the  tri-color  banner  to  greet ! 
The  gondolas,  girl,  they  are  passing, 
And  what  do  the  gondoliers  say  ? 
'  Viva  !  Evviva  Italia, 
VwailRe'f 

"  What !     Tears  in  your  eyes,  my  Giulia  ? 
You  weep  when  your  Venice  is  free  ? 
You  mourn  for  your  Austrian  lover, 
Whose  face  nevermore  shall  you  see ! 

*  "Till  1866  Venice  remained  Austrian,  save  for  a  few  hours  in  the  insurrections  of 
1848-49  ;  but  her  people  never  acknowledged  the  rights  of  those  who  had  bought  and 
sold  them  like  a  flock  of  sheep.  The  war  between  Austria  and  the  allied  Prussians  and 
Italians  in  1866  gave  Venice  her  freedom,  and  the  Unity  of  Italy  was  at  length  accom- 
plished under  the  sceptre  of  the  house  of  Savoy." — Encyclopaedia  Britannica. 


A  RHYME  OF  MODERN   VENICE.  541 

Kneel,  girl,  kneel  beside  me  and  whisper, 
While  to  Heaven  for  triumph  you  pray, 

'  Viva  !  Evviva  Italia  ! 
Viva  il  Re  !  ' 

"  Ah,  shame  on  the  weakness  that  held  you, 
And  shame  on  the  heart  that  was  won  ! 
No  blood  of  the  gonfaloniere 

Shall  mingle  with  blood  of  the  Hun ! 
Kebuke  to  the  name  of  the  spoiler, 
Swear  fealty  to  Venice  and  say, 
'  Viva  !  Evviva  Italia  ! 
Viva  il  Re  !  ' 

"  Bring,  girl,  from  the  dust  of  your  closet 

The  sword  that  your  ancestor  bore, 
When,  tamed  the  hot  onset  of  Genoa, 

Her  galleys  beat  back  from  our  shore. 
O  great  Contarini,  your  ashes 
To  freedom  are  given  to-day ! 
Viva  !  Evviva  Italia  ! 
Viva  il  Re  ! 

"  Not  these  were  the  cries  when  our  fathers 

The  gonfalon  gave  to  the  breeze, 
When  doges  sate  solemn  in  council, 

And  Venice  was  Queen  of  the  seas, 
But  the  years  of  the  future  are  ours 
To  humble  the  pride  of  the  gray — 
Viva  !  Evviva  Italia  ! 
Viva  il  Re  ! 

"  Hark !  heard  you  the  gun  at  the  mola, 
And  hear  you  the  answering  cheer  ? 
Our  army  is  coming,  Giulia, 

The  friends  of  our  Venice  are  near ! 
Ring  out  from  your  old  Campanile, 
Freed  bells  of  San  Marco  to-day, 
'  Viva  !  Evviva  Italia  ! 


THE   BACKWOODSMAN'S   DAUGHTER 


BY   MARY   ASHLEY    TOWNSEND. 

[MARY  ASHLEY  (\TAX  VOORHIS)  TOWNSEND,  whose  early  writings  were  published 
under  the  nom  de  guerre  of  Xariffa,  was  born  in  Lyons,  N.  Y.  Since  her  marriage,  in 
1856,  to  Mr.  Gideon  Townsend  of  New  Orleans,  she  has  resided  in  that  city.  Mr.  Henry 
Austin  says  :  "Though  born  in  the  North,  Mrs.  Townsend  is  essentially  Southern  in 
her  style,  which  is  more  than  tropical — possessing  a  semi-Oriental  suggestiveness  that 
sometimes  luxuriates  to  a  fault — a  charming  fault,  however,  in  the  main.  This  poet, 
I  think,  has  written  finer  passages  than  any  American  woman,  except,  perhaps,  Emma 
Lazarus  and  Sarah  Helen  Whitman  ;  but  the  fact  that  her  graceful  and  vigorous  lines 
have  been  cast  in  the  pleasant  places,  south  of  Mason  and  Dixon  line,  has  been  hith- 
erto a  bar  to  that  broadness  of  recognition  which  she  most  certainly  deserves."  Her 
publications  include  Brother  Clerks:  a  Tale  of  New  Orleans  (1859);  Poems  (1870); 
The  Captain's  Story  (1874)  ;  and  Down  the  Bayou,  and  other  Poems  (1882).] 

I  WAS  a  wanderer  from  my  place  of  birth, 
Seeking  among  the  wide  world's  busy  throng 
A  peaceful  harbor  for  my  woe-wrecked  heart. 
The  charm  of  home  was  gone — the  links  of  love, 
So  blessed  in  their  brightness,  broken  were, 
And  I  had  turned  away,  striving  to  heap 
Upon  the  black  grave  of  the  past  the  dust 
Of  dim  f orgetfulness. 

Toward  the  West 

I  turned  my  troubled  brow.     I  had  heard  much 
Of  that  fair  land,  where  the  untrammelled  herd 
The  echoing  turf  salutes  with  scornful  hoof ; 
Where  verdant  plains  lie  like  unfolded  scrolls 
Whose  emerald  pages  Nature  paints  with  flowers ; 
Where  the  proud  stag  beside  his  timid  mate 
Drinks  from  undesecrated  streams ;  and  all 
Seems  like  the  Eden  Garden  ere  the  stain 
Of  sin  besmeared  its  beauty.     There  I  turned, 
Not  with  the  hope  to  find  my  joys  again, 
But  with  intent  my  misery  to  hide 
Out  of  men's  sight  forever. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN'S  DAUGHTER.  543 

In  the  car 

Which  bore  me  on— whither  I  cared  nor  knew, 
So  it  was  westward  and  away — I  marked 

Among  the  travellers  a  swarthy  pair 

A  woodman  and  his  wife.     Between  them  sat 
A  child— a  little  girl— whose  deep  blue  eyes, 
Beneath  their  golden  lashes  hiding,  looked 
Like  twin  forget-me-nots  by  sunbeams  kissed. 
About  her  pretty  brow  and  shoulders  bare, 
Her  yellow  locks,  not  curled  nor  braided,  hung 
In  glittering  ripples  to  her  slender  Avaist. 
So  wonderfully  fair  she  looked  beside 
Her  rough  protectors  in  her  fragile  grace, 
She  seemed  like  some  frail  wind-flower  peeping  out 
From  the  broad  shadow  of  two  gnarled  old  oaks. 


Her  lips,  steeped  in  their  early  innocence 

Like  morning  buds  in  dew,  parted  at  last, 

And  her  few  words  tripped  lightly  over  them 

Like  footsteps  over  flowers.     "  Father  dear," 

She  softly  said,  and  twined  her  little  hand 

Amongst  the  old  man's  gray  and  stubborn  locks — 

"  Dear  father,  tell  me,  are  we  almost  home  ? 

I  am  so  weary  of  this  clattering  car, 

This  dust  and  din,  and  all  this  careless  crowd 

Of  people  whom  I  never  saw  before. 

Tell  me,  dear  father,  are  we  almost  home  ? " 


"  'Most  home ! "  the  sire  returned,  and  laid  his  hand 
Upon  her  upturned  brow ;  "  and  why,  my  child, 
Dost  long  to  reach  that  spot  which  ill  compares 
With  those  fair  city  scenes  whence  you  have  come  ? 
Dost  thou  forget  the  rich  man's  splendid  home, 
The  busy  streets  with  all  their  glittering  crowds, 
The  gay  shop- windows  where  each  day  you  saw 
So  many  tempting  toys  and  wondrous  books  ? 
And  dost  remember  ho\v  you  loved  to  hear 
The  chiming  church-bells  in  the  steeples  high, 
And  often  drew  your  little  hand  from  mine 
To  climb  the  steps,  and  through  the  doorways  vast 
Catch  glimpses  of  Keligion's  love  of  show  ? " 


544  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

"  True,  father  dear,"  the  little  one  replied — 
"  True,  I  did  like  the  busy  city  crowds, 
The  lofty  houses  where  rich  people  dwell, 
The  gay  shop-windows  and  the  pretty  toys, 
Because  they  were  so  wonderful  and  new 
To  my  unpractised  eyes.     In  vestibules 
Of  solemn  churches,  too,  I  loved  to  wait 
To  hear  the  wings  of  music  beat  the  air 
"When  the  deep  organ  did  the  Sabbath  greet. 
I  well  remember  how  I  drew  away 
My  humble  garments,  lest  they  might  defile 
The  dazzling  robes  of  those  who  could  afford 
In  worthier  garb  to  worship.     Yet  I  knew 
The  heart  lies  naked  in  our  Father's  sight, 
Howe'er  the  form  is  clad  ;  and  I  was  sure 
That  he  could  see  my  fervent  love  for  Him 
Beneath  my  simple  gown.     I  envied  none 
Their  wealth,  nor  did  I  wonder  that  they  wore 
Their  best  in  presence  of  their  King." 

"My  child," 

The  father  said,  while  to  his  rugged  face 
A  smile  came  tenderly,  "  thy  words  are  good  ; 
But  bear  in  mind  that  in  thy  Western  home 
All  this  which  thou  dost  own  to  having  loved 
"Will  to  thy  beauty-loving  eyes  be  lost ; 
Such  things  belong  not,  darling,  to  the  poor." 

'"  The  poor  have  memories  just  like  the  rich," 
She  gently  said.    "  I  can  remember  all, 
And  make  my  mind  a  picture-book  to  read 
To  little  friends  who  have  not  seen  as  much." 

Into  the  father's  eye  leaped  a  swift  tear 
And  trembled  there,  while  with  unsteady  lip 
His  questions  still  he  plied  :  "  But  tell  me  why 
'Thy  little  heart  hath  fixed  itself,  my  child, 
So  fondly  on  our  lowly  wildwood  cot  ? 
There  trials  are,  and  hardships  chain  the  hands 
Of  those  who  love  thee,  and  exacting  toil 
Doth  from  affection  steal  her  sweetest  hours. 
How  can  that  spot  be  brighter  in  thy  sight 
"Than  homes  where  ease  presides  and  care  is  not  ? " 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN'S  DAUGHTER.  545 

Upon  the  woodman's  wrinkled  face  the  child 
Fixed  her  blue  eyes  in  wonder  at  his  words ; 
And  then,  as  if  her  little  lips  returned 
The  all-sufficient  answer,  she  replied, 
"  Why,  father,  that  is  home  !  " 

The  shining  tear 

That  had  been  trembling  in  the  old  man's  eye 
Fell,  at  her  words,  down  o'er  his  swarthy  cheek, 
And  with  a  quick  embrace  of  thankfulness 
He  clasped  his  darling  to  his  rough,  broad  breast, 
Praising  the  Father  that  his  child  possessed 
That  best  of  blessings — a  contented  heart. 


She,  smiling  there  within  his  loving  arms, 

Eecalled  to  him  that  little  spot  out  West, 

Where,  in  the  sunny  forest-clearing  stood 

Their  lowly  rough-hewn  cabin,  where  each  morn 

The  merry  brook  ran  laughing  past  the  door, 

As  if  its  freight  were  joy  to  all  the  world. 

"  There,"  murmured  she,  half  dreaming  in  his  arms, 

"  The  livelong  day  among  the  woody  wilds 

I  find  such  pretty  playmates  and  playthings. 

The  velvet-footed  rabbit  waits  for  me 

Beneath  the  sheltering  cover  of  the  fern  ; 

The  squirrel,  chattering  o'er  his  nutty  meal, 

Flies  not  at  my  approach ;  and  pretty  stones, 

With  fallen  acorns,  fill  my  lap  with  toys. 

The  cool  moss  seems  to  welcome  my  bare  feet, 

And  birds  recite  their  poetry  to  me 

As  perfectly  as  though  I  were  a  queen, 

And  never  ask  if  I  be  rich  or  poor !  " 

Across  her  hair,  while  thus  she  prattled  on, 
The  slanting  sunbeams  gently  stretched  themselves, 
Then  stole  away  like  worshippers  content 
With  having  touched  some  consecrated  thing. 
Before  the  day  was  wholly  gone,  the  train 
Stopped  at  a  backwoods  station,  and  the  child, 
Holding  the  hands  of  those  whose  prize  she  was, 
Passed  from  my  sight  forever.     She  was  home. 


546  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

Long  did  I  muse  upon  the  simple  scene ; 

And  like  a  sharp  rebuke  the  child's  sweet  words 

Sank  in  my  restless  heart.     She,  with  a  cot, 

A  few  wild  flowers  and  unfettered  pets, 

Was  rich ;  whilst  I,  with  all  that  wealth  could  give, 

A  glittering  home  and  hosts  of  titled  friends, 

Lashed  to  the  demon  Discontent,  was  out 

Upon  the  world  a  wanderer ! 

Long  years 

Have  sped  since  then  ;  but  in  my  dreams  by  night 
And  in  my  walks  by  day,  by  that  child's  voice 
I  feel  my  sad  heart  haunted.     Echoing  there, 
It  hath  for  me  a  strange  significance. 
Out  of  the  blazing  blue  of  noonday  skies, 
And  up  beyond  the  midnight's  starry  depths, 
It  seems  to  gently  lead  my  chastened  soul, 
And  leave  it  trembling  by  mysterious  gates, 
While  its  soft  echoes  whisper,  "  That  is  home !  " 

1870. 


CREED. 

BY    MAKY    ASHLEY    TOWNSEND. 


I  BELIEVE  if  I  should  die, 
And  you  should  kiss  ray  eyelids  when  I  lie 

Cold,  dead,  and  dumb  to  all  the  world  contains, 
The  folded  orbs  would  open  at  thy  breath, 
And  from  its  exile  in  the  isles  of  death 

Life  would  come  gladly  back  along  my  veins  ! 


I  believe  if  I  were  dead, 
And  you  upon  my  lifeless  heart  should  tread, 

Not  knowing  what  the  poor  clod  chanced  to  be, 
It  would  find  sudden  pulse  beneath  the  touch 
Of  him  it  ever  loved  in  life  so  much, 

And  throb  again,  warm,  tender,  true  to  thee. 

in. 

I  believe  if  on  my  grave, 
Hidden  in  woody  deeps  or  by  the  wave, 

Your  eyes  should  drop  some  warm  tears  of  regret, 
From  every  salty  seed  of  your  dear  grief, 
Some  fair,  sweet  blossom  would  leap  into  leaf, 
To  prove  death  could  not  make  my  love  forget. 


I  believe  if  I  should  fade 
Into  those  mystic  realms  where  light  is  made, 

And  you  should  long  once  more  my  face  to  see, 
I  would  come  forth  upon  the  hills  of  night 
And  gather  stars,  like  fagots,  till  thy  sight, 

Led  by  their  beacon  blaze,  fell  full  on  me. 


I  believe  my  faith  in  thee, 
Strong  as  my  life,  so  nobly  placed  to  be, 


548  POETR  Y—MISCELLANEO  US. 

I  would  as  soon  expect  to  see  the  sun 
Fall  like  a  dead  king  from  his  height  sublime, 
His  glory  stricken  from  the  throne  of  time, 

As  thee  unworth  the  worship  thou  hast  won. 


I  believe  who  hath  not  loved 
Hath  half  the  sweetness  of  his  life  unproved ; 

Like  one  who,  with  the  grape  within  his  grasp, 
Drops  it  with  all  its  crimson  juice  unpressed, 
And  all  its  luscious  sweetness  left  unguessed, 

Out  from  his  careless  and  unheeding  clasp. 

VII. 

I  believe  love,  pure  and  true, 
is  to  the  soul  a  sweet,  immortal  dew 

That  gems  life's  petals  in  its  hours  of  dusk. 
The  waiting  angels  see  and  recognize 
The  rich  crown  jewel,  love,  of  paradise, 

When  life  falls  from  us  like  a  withered  husk. 

1870. 


TO   ONE   BELOVED. 

BY    MARY    ASHLEY    TOWNSEND. 

I  KNOW,  to-night,  thou  art  among  the  gay, 
The  centre  of  a  light  and  joyous  throng, 
Who  hang  upon  thy  laugh,  thy  jest,  thy  song ; 
I  know  the  dawn  will  gather,  cold  and  gray, 
And  find  me  waiting  thee  till  break  of  day. 
Our  lives  together  have  known  no  alloy, 
And,  dearest,  thy  delight  is  mine  alway. 

Though  thou  art  absent  I  am  with  thee  now ; 
Thought,  like  some  stalwart  swimmer,  parts  the  waves, 
And,  eager  for  the  resting-place  he  craves, 

Leaps,  nude  and  glowing,  from  the  amber  tide 
Of  Memory,  and,  rushing  to  thy  arms, 
His  dripping  limbs  in  thy  caresses  warms. 
1870. 


LAKE   PONTCHAKTRAIK 

BY   MAKY    ASHLEY    TOWNSEND. 

INTO  thy  sapphire  wave,  fair  Pontchartrain, 
Slow  sinks  the  setting  sun ;  the  distant  sail, 
On  far  horizon's  edge,  glides  hushed  and  pale, 

Like  some  escaping  spirit  o'er  the  main. 

The  sea-gull  soars,  then  tastes  thy  wave  again  ; 
The  bearded  forests  on  thy  sandy  shore 
In  silence  stand,  e'en  as  they  stood  of  yore 

While  yet  the  red  man  held  his  savage  reign, 

And  daring  Iberville's  adventurous  prow 
As  yet  had  never  cut  thy  purple  wave, 

ISTor  swung  the  shadow  of  his  shining  sail 
Across  the  bark  of  the  Biloxi  brave. 

Ah,  placid  lake !  where  are  thy  warriors  now  ? 
Where  their  abiding-places — where  their  grave  ? 
1870. 


THE    PICTURE. 

BY    WILLIAM    H.    HOLCOMBE. 

I  SAW  a  lovely  picture 

In  a  gallery  of  art, 
Which  charmed  me  like  an  April  rose, 

And  I  wear  it  in  my  heart ; 
Not  like  the  rose  of  gardens, 

Which  withers  soon  away, 
But  planted  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 

It  never  shall  decay. 

It  was  a  blooming  maiden, 

So  beautiful  and  pure, 
'Twas  mirrored  from  an  angel's  face 

In  a  vision,  I  am  sure. 
A  dove  of  heavenly  plumage 

Upon  her  bosom  lay ; 
I  saw  the  spirit  of  the  dove 

Around  her  lips  at  play. 

I  longed  to  see  the  painter, 

I  longed  to  grasp  his  hand  ; 
I  know  there  is  a  common  ground 

Whereon  we  two  could  stand. 
I  know  he  has  been  happy, 

And  his  heart  is  full  of  love, 
Or  he  never  could  have  imaged  forth 

That  maiden  and  her  dove. 

For  as  the  dove  resembles 

The  virgin's  spotless  thought, 
So  is  this  picture  like  the  soul 

From  which  it  was  outwrought ; 
And  of  that  glorious  spirit 

I  catch  a  radiant  part, 
Which  I  have  called  a  rose,  and  plant 

Forever  in  my  heart. 


PEEE  DAGOBEKT.* 

BY    M.    E.    M.    DAVIS. 
I. 

your  meagre,  fasting,  wild-eyed,  spare, 
Old  friars  was  Father  Dagobert ! 
He  paced  the  streets  of  the  vieuos  carre 
In  seventeen  hundred  and  somewhat,  gay, 
Rubicund,  jovial,  round,  and  fat. 
He  wore  a  worldly  three-cornered  hat 
On  his  shaven  pate ;  he  had  silken  hose 
To  his  ample  legs ;  and  he  tickled  his  nose 
With  snuff  from  a  gold  tabatiere. 
He  listened  with  courtly,  high-bred  air 
To  the  soft-eyed  penitente  who  came — 
Kirtled  lassie  or  powdered  dame — 
To  kneel  by  the  carved  confessional, 
And  breathe  in  a  whisper  musical 
The  deadliest  sins  she  could  recall. 


La  Nouvelle  Orleans'  self  was  young, 

When  the  Pere  came  over  from  France,  a  strong, 

Handsome,  rollicking  Capuchin  brother, 

Poor  as  a  mouse  of  the  Church,  his  mother, 

With  a  voice  like  an  angel's,  sweet  and  clear, 

That  saints  and  sinners  rejoiced  to  hear. 

The  town  it  had  grown  apace,  and  he 

For  the  goodly  half  of  the  century 

Had  blessed  its  brides  when  the  banns  were  said, 

And  christened  its  babies,  and  buried  its  dead  ; 

He  had  sipped  the  wines  from  its  finest  stores 

As  he  played  at  chess  with  its  Governors  ; 

And  wherever  a  feast  was  forward,  there 

Was  a  cover  for  Father  Dagobert. 

*  [From  Harper's  Magazine.    Copyright,  1888,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.] 


PERE  DAG  QBE RT.  553 


In  the  midst  of  its  fields  of  indigo 
Where  the  sleek  black  negroes,  row  on  row, 
Dug  and  delved  for  the  brotherhood, 
The  stately  house  of  the  Order  stood ; 
And  here  at  ease  on  their  fine  estate 
The  Pere  and  his  Capuchins  slept  and  ate 
And  thrived  and  fattened  for  many  a  year, 
Ungrudged  by  none  of  their  royal  cheer. 


ii. 

But  over  the  wall  of  this  paradise 
One  day  the  inquisitorial  eyes 
Of  the  Spanish  Padre  Cirilo 
Gazed,  horror-stricken ! 

"  Your  Grace  must  know," 
He  wrote  with  haste  to  the  Order's  head, 
"  "What  shame  by  our  Order  here  is  spread ; 
An  idle,  battening  set,  they  dwell — 
Unmindful  each  of  his  cord  and  cell — 
In  a  galleried  convent,  tall  and  fair, 
Misgoverned  by  one  named  Dagobert 
(A  bibulous  Frenchman,  gross  and  fat, 
Who  wears  a  graceless  three-cornered  hat, 
And  takes  his  snuff  from  a  jewelled  box). 
They  have  cunningly  carven  singing  clocks 
In  their  refectory ;  when  they  dine 
They  drink  the  best  and  the  beadiest  wine ; 
They  have  silver  spoons  and  forks — nay,  more, 
They  have  special  spoons  for  the  cafe  noir 
That  clears  their  brains  when  the  feast  is  o'er. 


"  This  Dagobert  "  (so  the  Padre  said) 

"  Usurps  the  power  of  the  Church's  Head, 

And  cares  not  a  fig  what  Rome  has  wrought ! 

The  Santa  Cruzada  itself  is  naught ; 

And  thirty  years  it  hath  been,  in  full, 

Since  Papal  or  Apostolic  Bull 

Hath  reached  his  flock ;  but  the  people  fare 

Content  to  follow  the  singing  Pere  ; 

For  in  truth  he  sings,  and  sings,  alas  ! 

With  a  seraph's  tongue  at  the  daily  mass." 


554  POETR  Y—MISCELLANEO  US. 

Further  he  told  how  this  singing  priest 

Forgot  the  fast  and  shifted  the  feast 

Of  the  Holy  Church  at  his  own  good  will, 

With  the  people  blindly  following  still. 

He  hinted  at  comely  quadroons  a-stare 

With  bold  black  eyes  at  morning  prayer 

In  the  convent  chapel,  or  strolling,  gay, 

Through  the  convent  halls  at  close  of  day. 

"  And  the  rascals  grow  daily  richer !     Your  Grace  " 

(He  groaned)  "  must  look  to  this  godless  place, 

And  humble  the  head  of  this  haughty  friar  ! " 

His  Grace  was  shocked.     With  a  holy  ire 

He  sped  his  edict  across  the  sea. 

But  a  wrathful  Province  heard  the  decree, 

And  Governor,  Alcalde,  citizen  staid, 

Eiffraff,  soldier,  matron,  and  maid, 

All  swore  nor  Church,  nor  State  should  dare 

To  rob  them  of  Father  Dagobert ! 

So  back  to  Spain  the  Padre  went, 

Humbled  himself,  and  penitent. 

The  Pere,  unruffled,  pursued  his  way, 

Disturbed  nor  vexed  to  his  dying  day ; 

And  the  friars  rejoiced  to  their  convent's  core, 

And  slept  and  ate  at  their  ease  once  more. 


Down  in  the  weed-grown  Cimetiere 

St.  Louis  reposes  the  worthy  Pere ; 

And  they  say,  when  the  nights  are  warm  and  sweet, 

And  stayed  is  the  sound  of  passing  feet, 

That  he  clambers  down  from  his  snug  retreat 

In  the  crumbling  vault,  and  up  and  down 

The  narrow  walks,  in  his  fine  serge  gown 

And  three-cornered  hat,  he  makes  his  way, 

And  sings  as  he  goes  till  the  break  of  day ; 

And  the  powdered  dames  of  the  old  regime, 

And  the  pig-tail  courtiers,  all  agleam 

With  jewels  and  orders,  come  thronging  out 

From  tombs  and  vaults — a  shadowy  rout — 

To  sit  atop  of  the  mouldy  stones 

That  cover  the  common  plebeian  bones, 


PERE  DAGOBERT.  555 

And  listen,  all  wrapped  in  a  vapory  mist ; 

While  the  hands  they  have  pressed,  the  lips  they  have  kissed, 

In  the  olden  days,  grow  warm  again, 

And  the  eyes  whereon  rusty  coins  have  lain 

For  a  hundred  years  and  more  grow  bright 

With  the  deathless  joys  of  a  long-gone  night. 

— A  bell  in  Don  Almonaster's  tower 
By  the  old  Place  d'Armes  rings  out  the  hour. 
Short  in  his  canticle  stops  the  Pere 
To  cross  himself  and  mutter  a  prayer ; 
Then  he  climbs  to  his  chilly  resting-place 
And  pulls  his  cope  up  over  his  face, 
And  folds  his  hands  in  a  patient  way, 
And  rests  himself  through  the  livelong  day. 

The  dames  and  courtiers  slowly  rise, 

Brushing  the  dews  from  their  softened  eyes, 

And  courtesying  grandly  as  they  go, 

They  pass  along  in  a  stately  row  ; 

They  pause  at  the  doors  of  their  family  tombs — 

Glancing  askance  at  the  inner  glooms, 

And  lifting  a  finger  with  slow  demur — 

To  say  with  that  air  of  a  connoisseur 

That  greeted  a  Manon,  when  she  and  they 

Trod  the  stage  of  the  juieux  carre, 

"  Mafoi  !  'tis  a  wondrous  thing  and  rare, 

The  singing  of  Father  Dagobert !  " 


THROWING   THE   WANGA.* 

(ST.  JOHN'S  EVE.) 
BY    M.    E.    M.    DAVIS. 

Shrill  over  dark  blue  Pontchartrain 

It  comes  and  goes,  the  weird  refrain, 

Wanga ! 


The  trackless  swamp  is  quick  with  cries 
Of  noisome  things  that  dip  and  rise 
On  night-grown  wings  ;  and  in  the  deep 
Dark  pools  the  monstrous  forms  that  sleep 
Inert  by  day  uplift  their  heads. 
The  zela  flower  its  poison  sheds 
Upon  the  warm  and  languorous  air  ; 
The  lak-vine  weaves  its  noxious  snare  / 
The  wide  palmetto  leaves  are  stirred 
Ey  venomed  breathings,  faintly  heard 
Across  the  still,  star-lighted  night. 

Her  lonely  spice-fed  fire,  alight 

Upon  the  black  swamp's  utmost  rim, 
Now  spreads  and  flares,  now  smoulders  dim  / 
And  at  her  feet  they  curl  and  break, 

The  dark  blue  waters  of  the  lake. 

Her  arms  are  wild  above  her  head — 
Old  withered  arms,  whose  charm  lias  fled. 

Zizi,  Creole  Zizi, 
You  is  slim  an'  straight  ez  a  saplin' 

Dat  grows  by  de  bayou's  aidge ; 
You  is  brown  an'  sleek  ez  a  young  Bob  White 

Whar  hides  in  de  yaller  sedge. 

Yo'  eyes  is  black  an'  shiny, 

An'  quick  ez  de  lightnin'  flash ; 
[Prom  Harper's  Weekly.     Copyright,  1889,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.] 


THROWING   THE   WANG  A.  557 

You  wuz  bawn  in  de  time  er  freedom, 
An'  never  is  felt  de  lash. 
— Me,  I  kin  th'ow  wanga ! 

Her  dusky  face  is  wracked  and  seamed. 
That  once  like  ebon  marble  gleamed. 

Zizi,  Creole  Zizi, 
You  is  spry  on  yo'  foot  ez  de  jay-bird 

Whar  totes  de  debble  his  san' ; 
You  kin  tole  de  buckra  to  yo'  side 

By  de  turnin'  o'  yo'  han'. 

Yo'  ways  is  sweet  ez  de  sugar 

You  puts  in  yo'  pralines, 
When  de  orange  flower  on  de  banquette  draps, 

An'  de  pistache-nut  is  green. 
— Me,  I  kin  th'ow  wanga ! 

Her  knotted  shoulders,  brown  and  bare, 
The  deathless  scars  of  slavehood  wear. 

Zizi,  Creole  Zizi, 
You  is  crope  lak  a  thieft  to  de  do'-yard 

When  de  moon  wuz  shinin'  high, 
An'  you  stole  de  ole  man'  heart  erway 

Wid  de  laughin'  in  yo'  eye. 

My  ole  man  ! — de  chillun's  daddy  ! 

We  is  hoed  de  cotton  row 
An'  shucked  de  corn-shuck  side  by  side 

Fer  forty  year  an'  mo' ! 
— Me,  I  kin  th'ow  wanga ! 


The  flames  that  leap  about 
Burn  with  a  perfume  strange 


Zizi,  Creole  Zizi, 
Twis'  yo'se'f  in  de  coonjine 

Lak  a  moccason  in  de  slime ; 
Twis'  yo'se'f  when  de  fiddle  talks 

Fer  de  las'  endurin'  time. 


558  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

Den  was'e  ter  de  bone  in  de  midnight, 

In  de  mawnin'  was'e  erway  ; 
Bu'n  wid  heat  in  de  winter-time, 

An'  shiver  de  hottes'  day — 
Wanga!  wanga! 

Onder  yo'  fla'ntin'  tignon 

De  red-hot  beetles  crawl, 
Wid  claws  dat  sco'ch  inter  de  meat, 

An'  mek  de  blood-draps  fall ! 

Over  yo'  bed  de  screech-owl 

In  de  midnight  screech  an'  cry ! 
Den  kiver  yo'  head,  Creole  Zizi — 

Den  kiver  yo'  head  an'  die — 
Wanga !  wanga ! 

Her  voice  is  hushed,  she  crouches  low 

Above  the  embers'  flickering  glow. 

The  swamp-wind  wakes,  and  many  a  thing 

Unnamed  flits  by  on  furry  wing  ; 

They  brush  her  cheeks  unfelt  /  she  hears 

The  far-off  songs  of  other  years. 

Her  eyes  grow  tender  as  she  sways 
And  croons  above  the  dying  Uaze. 
mm 
Oh,  de  cabin  at  de  quarter  in  de  old  plantation  days, 

Wid  de  garden  patch  behin'  it  an'  de  gode-vine  by  de  do', 

An'  de  do' -yard  sot  wid  roses,  where  de  chillun  runs  and  plays, 

An'  de  streak  o'  sunshine,  yaller  lak,  er-slantin'  on  de  flo' ! 

We  wuz  young  an'  lakly  niggers  when  de  ole  man  fotch  me  home. 

Ole  Mis'  she  gin  de  weddin',  an'  young  Mis'  she  dress  de  bride ! 
He  say  he  gwineter  love  me  twel  de  time  o'  kingdom  come, 

An'  forty  year  an'  uperds  we  is  trabble  side  by  side  1 

Bat  ole  Mars'  wuz  killed  at  Shiloh,  an'  young  Mars'  at  Wilderness  ; 

Ole  Mis'  is  in  de  graveyard,  wid  young  Mis'  by  her  side, 
An'  all  er  we-all's  fambly  is  scattered  eas'  an'  wes', 

An'  de  gode-vine  by  de  cabin  do'  an'  de  roses  all  has  died ! 


THROWING   THE   WANG  A.  559 

My  chillun  dey  is  scattered,  too,  an'  some  is  onder  groun'. 

Hit  wuz  forty  year  an'  uperds  we  is  trabble,  him  an*  me ! 
Ole  Mis',  whar  is  de  glory  o'  de  freedom  I  is  foun'  ? 

De  ole  man  he  is  lef '  me  fer  de  young  eyes  o'  Zizi ! 

Her  arms  are  wild  above  her  head, 
The  softness  from  her  voice  has  fled. 

Zizi,  Creole  Zizi, 
Twis'  yo'se'f  in  de  coonjine 

Lak  a  moccason  in  de  slime ; 
Kunjur  de  ole  man  wid  yo'  eye 

Fer  de  las'  endurin'  time ! 

Den  cry  an'  mo'n  in  de  mawnin', 

In  de  midnight  mo'n  an'  cry, 
Twel  de  debble  has  you,  han'  an'  foot, 

Den  stretch  yo'se'f  an'  die ! — 
Wanga !  wanga ! 


MY   LOYE   WENT    SAILING    O'ER   THE   SEA. 

BY   M.    E.    M.    DAVIS. 

MY  Love  went  sailing  o'er  the  sea, 
And  gold  and  gems  he  promised  me, 
But  one  white  shell  he  had  from  me. 

A  sailor-lad  my  Love  was  he, 

But  "  Captain  yet,  my  lass,  I'll  be !  " 

He  cried  with  that  last  kiss  to  me. 

I  watched  the  ships  sail  in  from  sea, 
"With  white  sails  spreading  wide  and  free, 
And  sailors  chanting  merrily. 

And  Captains  tall  and  fair  to  see 
Stood  on  their  decks  ;  but  none  to  me 
Held  out  the  hand  or  bent  the  knee. 

At  last  a  ship  crawled  in  from  sea, 
Crippled,  and  stained,  and  old  was  she, 
And  over  her  side  my  Love  stepped  he, 

And  down  at  my  feet  he  bent  his  knee  ; 
"  A.  sailor  still,  my  girl !  "  cried  he, 
"  And  one  white  shell  I ~bring  to  thee" 


SILENCE. 

BY    M.    E.    M.    DAVIS. 

THIS  is  not  silence,  love  ! 
For  though  the  wind  doth  faint  and  fail  outside, 

Though  in  the  gathered  dusk  all  sound  doth  die, 
Yet  on  thy  perfect  face,  oh,  true  and  tried, 

Uplift  to  mine,  a  spell-like  light  doth  lie, 
That  fills  the  air  with  language  sweeter  far 

Than  any  living  sound !     There  is  no  call 
For  words !     There  needs  no  light  of  moon  or  star — 

'Twixt  me  and  thee  the  darkness  cannot  fall, 
Nor  any  silence,  love ! 

Ah,  this  is  silence,  love  ! 
A  thousand  clamorous  sounds  are  in  the  air, 

The  busy  throngs  go  up  and  down  the  street ; 
But  ah,  these  pallid  roses  in  thy  hair,  mm 

These  hands  across  thy  bosom  fixed  and  sweet ! 
The  cold  white  lids  upon  thine  eyes,  to  be 

Uplifted  nevermore  !     The  spell-like  light 
No  more  to  gather,  love,  'twixt  me  and  thee ! 

This  is  a  darkness  deeper  far  than  night, 
And  this  is  silence,  love ! 


COUNSEL. 

BY    M.    E.    M.    DAVIS. 

IF  thou  shouldst  bid  thy  friend  farewell — 

But  for  one  night  though  that  farewell  should  be — 
Press  thou  his  hand  in  thine ;  how  canst  thou  tell 
How  far  from  thee 

Fate  or  caprice  may  lead  his  feet, 

Ere  that  to-morrow  come  ?     Men  have  been  known 
Lightly  to  turn  the  corner  of  a  street, 
And  days  have  grown 

To  months,  and  months  to  lagging  years, 

Before  they  looked  in  loving  eyes  again. 
Parting,  at  best,  is  underlaid  with  tears — 
With  tears  and  pain. 

Therefore,  lest  sudden  death  should  come  between, 

Or  time,  or  distance,  clasp  with  pressure  true 
The  palm  of  him  who  goeth  forth.     Unseen 
Fate  goeth  too ! 

Yea,  find  thou  alway  time  to  say 

Some  earnest  word  betwixt  the  idle  talk, 
Lest  with  thee  henceforth,  night  and  day, 
Kegret  should  walk. 

The  Galaxy,  1872. 


FOR  THEE,  MY  LOVE,  FOE  THEE. 


BY    MARK    F.    BIGNEY. 

[MARK  FREDERICK  BIGNEY  was  born  in  Nova  Scotia  in  1817.  Coming  to  New 
Orleans  about  1847,  he  was  successively  connected,  as  writer,  with  the  Delta,  the  True 
Delta,  the  Mirror,  a  literary  weekly,  and  the  Picayune,  finally  becoming,  in  1865, 
managing  editor  of  the  New  Orleans  Times.  In  1867  he  was  one  of  the  founders  of 
the  New  Orleans  City  Item,  of  which  he  was  the  leading  editor  at  the  time  of  his  death 
in  1886.  As  a  journalist,  he  was  cautious  in  forming  an  opinion,  but  bold  in  maintain- 
ing it.  His  only  published  volume  is  Poems  (1867).] 

THY  love's  the  sun,  thou  peerless  one — 

It  warms  me  with  its  glow  ; 
With  light  divine  it  seems  to  shine, 

Though  I  alone  can  know 
Its  secret  charm,  a  shield  from  harm 

On  life's  uncertain  sea. 
Oh,  I  shall  pray,  both  night  and  day, 

For  thee,  my  love,  for  thee  ! 


With  starry  gleams,  in  holy  dreams 

Thou  comest  to  my  soul, 
As  o'er  a  strand  of  golden  sand 

Life's  sparkling  waters  roll ; 
And,  with  the  kiss  of  purest  bliss, 

Attuned  to  harmony, 
My  thoughts  arise  to  brightest  skies, 

With  thee,  my  love,  with  thee. 

The  golden  chimes  of  sweetest  rhymes 

Thy  charms  but  faintly  tell ; 
The  softest  note  that  e'er  did  float 

From  fairy  horn  or  shell, 
With  birds  that  sing  and  flowers  of  spring, 

And  all  bright  things  that  be, 
None  can  compare,  with  voice  or  air, 

With  thee,  my  love,  with  thee. 


564  POETR  Y—MISCELLANEO  US. 

Oh,  I  would  write  thy  name  with  light 

To  shame  the  stars  above, 
And  in  high  lays  would  ever  praise 

The  riches  of  thy  love  ! 
All  wealth  that  shines  in  golden  mines, 

All  gems  of  land  and  sea, 
Are  but  as  rust  and  trampled  dust, 

To  thee,  my  love,  to  thee. 


PVE   KISSED   HER   IX  A  DEEAM. 

BY   MAKK   F.   BI6XET. 

SHE  mores  along  the  crowded  streets. 

A  vision  fair  and  bright ; 
Her  lustrous  eves  outshine  the  stars 

Which  gem  the  halls  of  Xight. 
Her  lips  are  Love's  delighted  throne, 

Her  cheeks  twin  roses  seem ; 
And  oh,  the  bliss— the  more  than  bliss — 

I've  kissed  her  in  a  dream ! 

Her  voice  is  music,  and  her  step 

Is  light  as  zephyr's  tread ; 
Tis  paradise  where'er  she  is ; 

Tis  rapture  to  be  led 
By  her  soft  hand  through  phantom-lands, 

Where  love  is  afl  the  theme ; 
And  oh,  the  bliss— the  more  than  bliss— 

ITve  kissed  her  in  a  dream ! 

Let  others  praise  their  work-day  loves, 

And  pledge  them  in  their  wine, 
Thought-blossoms,  culled  in  fury  groves, 

ni  wreath  in  song  for  mine. 
She's  fair  as  heaven,  and  dear  and  pure 

As  sunlightTs  primal  beam  ; 
And  oh,  the  bliss— the  more  than  bliss— 

F  ve  kissed  her  in  a  dream ! 


HAGAK. 

BY    ELIZA    J.    XICHOLSOX. 

[  ELIZA  JANE  (POITEVEXT)  XICHOLSOX — well  known  under  the  nom-de-plume  of 
"Pearl  Rivers  "—is  the  joint  owner,  with  her  husband,  Mr.  George  Nicholson,  of  the 
New  Orleans  Picayune.  Her  only  published  volume  is  Lyrics  (1873).  One  of  her  critics 
says  :  "She  is  one  of  Nature's  sweetest  poets,  and  as  pure-hearted  as  the  blue  river  from 
which  she  takes  her  name — a  wild-wood  warbler,  knowing  how  to  sing  of  birds  and  flowers 
and  flowing  brooks,  and  all  things  beautiful."] 

Go  back !     How  dare  you  follow  me  beyond 

The  door  of  my  poor  tent  ?     Are  you  afraid 

That  I  have  stolen  something  ?     See !  my  hands 

Are  empty,  like  my  heart.     I  am  no  thief ! 

The  bracelets  and  the  golden  finger  rings 

And  silver  anklets  that  you  gave  to  me, 

I  cast  upon  the  mat  before  my  door, 

And  trod  upon  them.     I  would  scorn  to  take 

One  trinket  with  me  in  my  banishment 

That  would  recall  a  look  or  tone  of  yours, 

My  lord,  my  generous  lord,  who  send  me  forth, 

A  loving  woman,  with  a  loaf  of  bread 

And  jug  of  water  on  my  shoulder  laid, 

To  thirst  and  hunger  in  the  wilderness ! 

Go  back ! 

Go  back  to  Sara !     See,  she  stands 
"Watching  us  there,  behind  the  flowering  date, 
With  jealous  eyes,  lest  my  poor  hands  should  steal 
One  farewell  touch  from  yours.     Go  back  to  her, 
And  say  that  Hagar  has  a  heart  as  proud, 
If  not  so  cold,  as  hers ;  and,  though  it  break, 
It  breaks  without  the  sound  of  sobs,  without 
The  balm  of  tears  to  ease  its  pain.     It  breaks, 
It  breaks,  my  lord,  like  iron — hard,  but  clean — 
And  breaking  asks  no  pity.     If  my  lips 
Should  let  one  plea  for  mercy  slip  between 
These  words  that  lash  you  with  a  woman's  scorn, 
My  teeth  should  bite  them  off,  and  I  would  spit 
Them  at  you,  laughing,  though  all  red  and  warm  with  blood. 


HAGAR.  567 

"  Cease !  "  do  you  say  ?     Xo,  by  the  gods 
Of  Egypt,  I  do  swear  that  if  my  eyes 
Should  let  one  tear  melt  through  their  burning  lids, 
My  hands  should  pluck  them  out ;  and  if  these  hands, 
Groping  outstretched  in  blindness,  should  by  chance 
Touch  yours,  and  cling  to  them  against  my  will, 
My  Ishmael  should  cut  them  off,  and  blind 
And  maimed,  my  little  son  should  lead  me  forth 
Into  the  wilderness  to  die.     Go  back ! 
Does  Sara  love  you  as  I  did,  my  lord  ? 
Does  Sara  clasp  and  kiss  your  feet,  and  bend 
Her  haughty  head  in  worship  at  your  knee  ? 
Ah,  Abraham,  you  were  a  god  to  me ! 
If  you  but  touched  my  hand  my  foolish  heart 
Ean  down  into  the  palm,  and  throbbed  and  thrilled, 
Grew  hot  and  cold,  and  trembled  there ;  and  when 
You  spoke,  though  not  to  me,  my  heart  ran  out 
To  listen  through  my  eager  ears  and  catch 
The  music  of  your  voice  and  prison  it 
In  memory's  murmuring  shell.     I  saw  no  fault 
Nor  blemish  in  you,  and  your  flesh  to  me 
Was  dearer  than  my  own.     There  is  no  vein 
That  branches  from  your  heart,  whose  azure  course 
I  have  not  followed  with  my  kissing  lips. 
I  would  have  bared  my  bosom  like  a  shield 
To  any  lance  of  pain  that  sought  your  breast. 
And  once,  when  you  lay  ill  within  your  tent, 
No  taste  of  water  or  of  bread  or  wine 
Passed  through  my  lips ;  and  all  night  long  I  lay 
Upon  the  mat  before  your  door  to  catch 
The  sound  of  your  dear  voice,  and  scarcely  dared 
To  breathe,  lest  she,  my  mistress,  should  come  forth 
And  drive  me  angrily  aAvay ;  and  when 
The  stars  looked  down  with  eyes  that  only  stared 
And  hurt  me  with  their  lack  of  sympathy, 
Weeping,  I  threw  my  longing  arms  around 
Benammi's  neck.     Your  good  horse  understood 
And  gently  rubbed  his  face  against  my  head, 
To  comfort  me.     But  if  you  had  one  kind, 
One  loving  thought  of  me  in  all  that  time, 
That  long,  heart-breaking  time,  you  kept  it  shut 
Close  in  your  bosom  as  a  tender  bud, 
And  did  not  let  it  blossom  into  words. 


568  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

Your  tenderness  was  all  for  Sara.     Through 

The  door,  kept  shut  against  my  love,  there  came 

No  message  to  poor  Hagar,  almost  crazed 

With  grief  lest  you  should  die.     Ah !  you  have  been 

So  cruel  and  so  cold  to  me,  my  lord ; 

And  now  you  send  me  forth  with  Ishmael, 

Not  on  a  journey  through  a  pleasant  land 

Upon  a  camel  as  my  mistress  rides, 

With  kisses,  and  sweet  words,  and  dates  and  wine, 

But  cast  me  off,  and  sternly  send  me  forth 

Into 'the  wilderness  with  these  poor  gifts — 

A  jug  of  water  and — a  loaf  of  bread. 

That  sound  was  not  a  sob ;  I  only  lost 

My  breath  and  caught  it  hard  again.     Go  back ! 

Why  do  you  follow  me  ?     I  am  a  poor 

Bondswoman,  but  a  woman  still,  and  these 

Sad  memories,  so  bitter  and  so  sweet, 

Weigh  heavily  upon  my  breaking  heart 

And  make  it  hard,  my  lord,  for  me  to  go. 

"  Your  God  commands  it  ? "     Then  my  gods,  the  gods 

Of  Egypt,  are  more  merciful  than  yours. 

Isis  and  good  Osiris  never  gave 

Command  like  this,  that  breaks  a  woman's  heart, 

To  any  prince  in  Egypt.     Come  with  me, 

And  let  us  go  and  worship  them,  dear  lord. 


Leave  all  your  wealth  to  Sara.     Sara  loves 

The  touch  of  costly  linen  and  the  scent 

Of  precious  Chaldean  spices,  and  to  bind 

Her  brow  with  golden  fillets,  and  perfume 

Her  hair  with  ointment.     Sara  loves  the  sound 

Of  many  cattle  lowing  on  the  hills  ; 

And  Sara  loves  the  slow  and  stealthy  tread 

Of  many  camels  moving  on  the  plains. 

Hagar  loves  you.     Oh,  come  with  me,  dear  lord ! 

Take  but  your  staff  and  come  with  me !     Your  mouth 

Shall  drink  my  share  of  water  from  this  jug 

And  eat  my  share  of  bread  with  Ishmael ; 

And  from  your  lips  I  will  refresh  myself 

With  love's  sweet  wine  from  tender  kisses  pressed. 

Ah,  come,  dear  lord !     Oh,  come,  my  Abraham ! 

Nay,  do  not  bend  your  cold,  stern  brows  on  me 


HAGAR.  569 

So  frowningly  ;  it  was  not  Hagar's  voice 
That  spoke  those  pleading  words. 

Go  back !     Go  back ! 

And  tell  your  God  I  hate  him,  and  I  hate 
The  cruel,  craven  heart  that  worships  him 
And  dares  not  disobey.     Ha !  I  believe 
'Tis  not  your  far-off,  bloodless  God  you  fear, 
But  Sara.     Coward  1     Cease  to  follow  me ! 
Go  back  to  Sara.     See !  she  beckons  now. 
Hagar  loves  not  a  coward  ;  you  do  well 
To  send  me  forth  into  the  wilderness, 
Where  hatred  hath  no  weapon  keen  enough 
That  held  within  a  woman's  slender  hand 
Could  stab  a  coward  to  the  heart. 

I  go! 

I  go,  my  lord ;  proud  that  I  take  with  me, 
Of  all  your  countless  herds  by  Hebron's  brook, 
Of  all  your  Canaan  riches,  naught  but  this — 
A  jug  of  water  and  a  loaf  of  bread. 
And  now,  by  all  of  Egypt's  gods,  I  swear, 
If  it  were  not  for  Ishmael's  dear  sake, 
My  feet  would  tread  upon  this  bitter  bread, 
My  hands  would  pour  this  water  on  the  sands, 
And  leave  this  jug  as  empty  as  my  heart 
Is  empty  now  of  all  the  reverence 
And  overflowing  love  it  held  for  you. 

I  go! 

But  I  will  teach  my  little  Ishmael 
To  hate  his  father  for  his  mother's  sake. 
His  bow  shall  be  the  truest  bow  that  flies 
Its  arrows  through  the  desert  air ;  his  feet 
The  fleetest  on  the  desert's  burning  sands. 
Ay  !  Hagar's  son  a  desert  prince  shall  be, 
"Whose  hand  shall  be  against  all  other  men  ; 
And  he  shall  rule  a  fierce  and  mighty  tribe, 
Whose  fiery  hearts  and  supple  limbs  will  scorn. 
The  chafing  curb  of  bondage,  like  the  fleet 
Wild  horses  of  Arabia. 

I  go! 

But  like  this  loaf  that  you  have  given  me, 
So  shall  your  bread  taste  bitter  with  my  hate ; 
And  like  the  water  in  this  jug,  my  lord, 
So  shall  the  sweetest  water  that  you  draw 


570  POETRY-MISCELLANEOUS. 

From  Canaan's  wells  taste  salty  with  my  tears. 

Farewell !     I  go,  but  Egypt's  mighty  gods 

Will  go  with  me,  and  my  avengers  be. 

And  in  whatever  distant  land  your  God, 

Your  cruel  God  of  Israel,  is  known, 

There,  too,  the  wrongs  that  you  have  done  this  day 

To  Hagar  and  your  first-born,  Ishmael, 

Shall  waken  and  uncoil  themselves,  and  hiss 

Like  adders  at  the  name  of  Abraham. 

Cosmopolitan  Magazine,  November,  1893. 


WAITING. 

BY   ELIZA   J.    NICHOLSON. 

DOWN  the  golden  shores  of  Sunset, 
On  the  silver  Twilight  strand, 

For  my  dark-eyed  poet-lover 
I  in  dreamy  waiting  stand. 

O'er  the  waters  deep  that  part  us, 
In  the  fairy  barque  of  Thought, 

Winged  with  silken  sails  from  Dreamland, 
By  the  hand  of  Fancy  wrought, 

He  is  floating,  floating  softly, 
Floating  straight  to  love  and  me. 

Hark  !  the  mellow,  mellow  music 
Of  his  voice  upon  the  sea. 

Eeason  guides  the  fairy  shallop, 
And  his  heart-throbs  dip  it  low ; 

With  a  dreamy,  dreamy  motion, 
Kock  it  gently  to  and  fro. 

He  has  passed  the  shoals  of  Pleasure, 
Though  the  sirens  singing  there 

Sought  to  bind  him  to  their  bosoms 
With  their  golden,  golden  hair. 

And  he  brings  a  precious  freightage, 

Sparkling  gems  of  Poesie, 
Gathered  from  the  Isles  of  Beauty, 

And  this  wealth  is  all  for  me  ! 

All  for  me !  his  chaste,  his  chosen, 

Standing  by  the  Sunset-land, 
Like  the  spirit  of  a  Lily 

On  the  silver  Twilight  strand  ! 


ONLY   A   HEART. 

BY    ELIZA    J.    NICHOLSON. 

ONLY  a  heart — a  woman's  heart ! 

Step  on  it,  crush  it — so  ! 
Bravely  done,  like  a  man,  and  true. 

Turn  on  your  heel  and  go. 

Only  a  heart !     Do  not  fear,  my  lord, 

Nobody  on  earth  is  near 
To  come  to  the  cry  of  the  wounded  thing, 

And  God  is  too  far  to  hear ! 

Only  a  heart !     What  matters  it,  pray, 

My  lord  of  the  iron  heel  ? 
Crush  it  again,  with  a  pitiless  smile  ; 

'Tis  weakness,  my  lord,  to  feel. 

Nay,  stoop  not  to  touch  it  or  soothe  it,  my  lord, 

"With  the  balm  of  a  gentle  word. 
So — so — coldly  turn  from  the  crushed,  bleeding  thing ; 

It  is  only  a  heart,  my  lord. 

Only  a  heart !     What  harm  is  done  ? 

Let  it  bleed  in  the  dust  and  moan, 
Or  stifle  its  anguish  as  best  it  may, 

Or  stiffen,  my  lord,  into  stone. 

Only  a  heart !     It  was  fresh,  and  young, 

And  tender,  and  warm,  I  know  ; 
As  pure  as  the  spirit  of  chastity, 

My  lord — and  it  loved  you  so. 

But  nothing  is  lost.     Let  it  die,  my  lord, 

Let  its  death  be  quiet  or  slow. 
Such  hearts  are  plenty  as  summer  leaves ; 

We  find  them  wherever  we  go. 


ONLY  A  HEART.  573 

Only  a  heart !  and  for  loving  you  so, 

The  cup  that  you  gave  let  it  drain 
To  the  bitterest  dregs.     Let  it  quiver  and  bleed. 

Let  it  beat  a  full  rhythm  of  pain. 

Nay  !     Stay  not  to  make  it  a  grave,  my  lord  ; 

But  back  to  your  pleasures  depart — 
No  blood  on  your  hand,  no  stain  on  your  soul ; 

It  was  only  a  weak  woman's  heart ! 


DKEAMS   OF   THE   PAST. 

BY    K.    N.    OGDEN. 

[ ROBERT  NASH  OGDEN,  a  lawyer  by  profession,  was  born  in  Baton  Rouge,  La.,  May 
5,  1839.  He  served  with  distinction  in  the  Confederate  array.  Since  the  reconstruction 
era,  he  has  been  prominent  in  the  politics  of  Louisiana,  and  especially  during  Governor 
Wiltz's  administration,  when  he  was  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Representatives  of  the 
State.  He  is  best  known  as  an  orator,  but  has  confined  his  talents  to  no  one  field.  He 
devotes  much  of  his  leisure  to  light  literature,  and  has  written  an  interesting  novel, 
entitled  Who  Did  It  ?  (1886).  He  is,  at  this  writing,  one  of  the  Judges  of  the  Court  of 
Appeals  of  New  Orleans.] 

DREAMS  of  the  past ! 
How  vividly  you  seem 

To  crowd  upon  my  aching  brain, 
Racking  my  memory  by  thoughts  that  teem 
With  fire,  anguish,  and  despair ; 
Tearing  aside  the  veil 
And  leaving  bare 

The  faults  of  youth,  passion,  jealousy,  and  rage, 
That  madden  even  now,  in  spite  of  age. 

I  see  her  even  yet, 

As  on  that  morn  in  May. 
(Oh  !  would  to  God  I  could  forget ! ) 

She  looked  as  placid  as  the  day ; 
Her  long,  soft  tresses,  waving  in  the  air, 
Clustered  like  sunshine 
'Round  her  bosom  fair ; 

Which  heaved  and  fell,  like  the  undulating  sea. 
As  her  soft,  lustrous  eyes  did  dwell  on  me. 

Her  little  hand,  so  white, 

Gently  a  bunch  of  violets  held 

(Faded  violets,  still  near  my  heart  you  dwell) ; 

And  when  she  oped  her  lips  in  love, 

The  very  angels  from  above, 

Scenting  the  violets  and  her  breath, 

Turned  from  the  flowers,  and  touched  her  lips  by  stealth. 


DREAMS  OF  THE  PAST.  575 


So  fragrant,  sweet,  and  holy,  chaste, 

Sin  became  virtue  by  the  taste. 

Her  soft  brown  eye, 

Pregnant  with  the  fire 

Of  sweet  yet  pure  desire, 

Shone  out  in  spite  of  her  long  lashes, 

Twinkling  like  the  brightest  star, 

Reflecting  heaven  from  afar ; 

And,  ever  and  anon,  the  flashes 

Dazzled  as  I  gazed, 

Mute  in  astonishment  and  amazed. 


She  was  my  wife ! 

My  little  wife,  whose  love  to  me  was  constant  life  • 
Whose  ev'ry  thought  was  mine  alone, 
More  happy  than  the  monarch  throned ; 
Whose  smile,  like  as  the  rays  of  Heaven, 
Dispelling  gloom,  was  ever  given. 
Her  thoughts  were  like  the  purest  snow, 
No  evil  could  she  ever  know  ; 
And  yet  within  my  heart  jealousy  began  to  grow. 


I  fancied  once  (in  evil  hour) 

My  love  for  her  had  lost  its  power ; 

And  then  the  demon  of  despair, 

Like  hungry  beast  within  his  lair, 

Taught  me  to  suspect  this  flower  fair, 

This  angel  bright,  this  beauty  rare ! 

Oh,  cursed  hour !  oh,  miserable  man  ! 

That  she  should  come  to  grief,  and  by  thy  hand ;. 

Weep  bitter  tears — forget  it  if  you  can ! 

I  spoke  the  cruel  word. 

Startled  and  tremblingly  she  heard, 

And  then  her  eyes  flashed  with  a  fire 

So  strongly  bright,  but  not  with  ire ; 

Her  low,  soft  voice  was  heard — 

Sweet  voice,  I  treasure  every  word — 

Startling  in  its  grief  my  ear ; 

One  look — so  sad  of  love — one  sigh, 

Great  God !  I  felt  it,  then,  that  she  would  die. 


576  POETRY— MISCELLANEOUS. 

Dreams  of  the  past ! 
How  vividly  you  seem 

To  crowd  upon  my  aching  brain, 
Racking  my  memory  by  thoughts  that  teem 
With  fire,  anguish,  and  despair ; 
Filling  the  air 
With  phantoms  grim, 
That  rise,  in  spite  of  penitence  and  prayer, 
And  madly  haunt  me  thus,  e'en  everywhere. 


THE   LIGHT   OF   THINE   EYES. 

BY    R.    N.  OGDEN. 

THE  light  of  thine  eyes,  dear  love, 
Sears  and  scorches  my  heart, 

As  the  flash  of  the  lightning  burns  and  blights  the  life  of  the  tree — 
Then  you  are  angry  with  me. 

The  light  of  thine  eyes,  dear  love, 
Warms  to  life  the  joys  of  my  heart, 

As  the  rays  of  the  genial  sun  make  fruit  of  the  bloom  of  the  tree — 
Then  you  are  loving  to  me. 

37 


THE   HOUSE   IMMORTAL. 

BY    RICHARD    NIXON. 

[RICHARD  NIXON  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  March  21,  1860.  In  his  child- 
hood his  parents  brought  him  with  them  to  their  home  in  New  Orleans.  In  1884  and 
1885  he  was  secretary  of  the  two  expositions  held  successively  in  New  Orleans.  In  1886 
he  took  up  his  residence  in  Washington  City,  where  he  served  for  several  years  as  corre- 
spondent of  the  Times- Democrat.  There,  also,  in  1893  he  was  graduated  with  the  degree 
of  Master  of  Laws  ;  then  he  removed  to  Portland,  Oregon,  where  he  is  now  practising 
his  profession.] 

HE  who  would  build  a  house  that  all  may  see, 

In  Truth  should  dig  the  deep  foundation  ways, 

And  lay  the  corner-stone  of  Love,  and  raise 
The  walls  of  Steadfastness ;  then  tenderly 
Bedeck  the  halls  with  Song  and  Poesy, 

And  keep  Contentment  on  the  hearth  ablaze  ; 

The  windows  Hope,  the  ascending  gables  Praise, 
And  over  all  the  roof  of  Charity. 

Then  let  the  tempests  rage,  the  flames  consume ; 

Time's  self  were  impotent  to  seal  the  doom 
Of  such  a  house,  where  wanderers  may  find, 

Blazoned  in  gold  above  the  welcoming  portal : 
"  Who  enters  here  leaves  Hopelessness  behind." 

The  true  home  is  the  heart,  and  hence  immortal. 


SIK  WILLIAM   THOMSON'S  AEROLITH. 

BY    RICHARD    NIXON. 

GRAY,  moss-grown  fragment  of  a  shattered  world, 
Have  you  at  last  found  peaceful  days  and  rest  ? 
While  lying  here  upon  the  meadow's  breast, 
With  tender  tendrils  round  about  you  curled, 
Do  you  forget  the  days  and  ways  when,  whirled 
Through  awful  space,  you  speeded  in  your  quest 
For  any  shining  distant  sphere  where  best 
Life's  wearied  wings  might  be  forever  furled  ? 
If,  as  one  says,  within  your  cold  embrace 

There  sleeps  a  life  long  nursed  in  unseen  skies, 

When  your  dull  \veight  has  turned  to  fertile  earth, 
there  spring  forth  a  flower  with  star-born  face, 
Or  strange-shaped  butterfly  with  crystal  eyes — 
A  dazzling  splendor  of  ephemeral  mirth  ? 


SWINBURNE. 

BY   RICHARD    NIXON. 

EAGLE  of  song,  toward  your  unflinching  flight 

I  turn  the  longing  of  devoted  gaze. 

From  this  dark  terrene  coign  I  catch  the  rays 
That  blinding  fall  from  your  supernal  height. 
Your  wings  are  rhythm,  and  your  flight  is  light ; 

Beyond  all  thought  or  dream  of  perfect  praise, 

You  rise  to  heaven  through  the  uncertain  ways 
That  lie  along  the  borderlands  of  night. 
Teach  me  the  secret  of  your  pulsing  breast, 

And  all  its  moving  mysteries  unfold, 

And  how  the  magic  of  your  might  is  won ; 
For  now  you  make  youth's  tender  heart  your  nest, 

And  now  you  fiercely  soar,  exultant,  bold, 
And  gaze  unblinded  on  the  equal  sun. 


WHEN   ALL  IS   SAID. 

BY   JULIA   K.    WETHERILL   BAKER. 

WHEN  all  is  said — when  all  our  words 
Of  love  and  pleasure,  one  by  one, 

Have  taken  wing  and  flown  like  birds 
That  seek  the  Southern  sun — 

Naught  shall  be  changed.     The  sweet  delay 
Of  April  dusks,  the  rapturous  dawn, 

The  glowing  height  of  golden  day, 
Shall  all  go  on,  and  on. 

The  birds  shall  shake  the  rosy  bough 
With  ecstasy  of  springtide  song ; 

And  in  the  meadows,  then  as  now, 
The  grass  shall  crowd  and  throng. 

There  shall  be  flowers  and  flowers  ! — to  waste 
Along  the  paths  where  victors  tread, 

Or  where  the  f  easters  singing  haste ; 
And  wreaths  to  deck  the  dead. 

And  not  the  less  clear  streams  shall  run 

Through  secret  haunts  of  woodland  gloom ; 

And  I  shall  smile,  as  smiles  the  sun 
On  cradle  and  on  tomb. 

When  all  is  said — Soul  of  my  soul ! 

Could  all  be  said  of  love's  delight, 
'Twixt  thee  and  me,  though  time  should  roll 

Beyond  earth's  day  and  night  ? 


Atlantic  Monthly. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


FEB  16  194|9 


'Jl  131*. 


KDMAY  05 


APR  272005 


Form  L9-25w-9,'47(A5618)444 


PS         lit  Caleb  - 

558 Louisiana  book, 

L8M1 


University  Of  California.  Los  Angeles 


L  007  410  834  1 


